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THE 
POEM-BOOK   OF   THE   GAEL 


Printed  by  BALLANTYNE,  HANSON  &*  Co. 
at  Paul's  Work,  Edinburgh 


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THE  POEM-BOOK  OF 
THE  GAEL 

Translations  from  Irish  Gaelic  Poetry  into 
English  Prose  and  Verse 

SELECTED  AND  EDITED  BY 

ELEANOR   HULL 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  CUCHULLIN  SAGA  IN  IRISH  LITERATURE" 
"A  TEXT-BOOK  OF  IRISH  LITERATURE,"  ETC. 


CHICAGO 

BROWNE    &    HOWELL    COMPANY 
LONDON:  CHATTO  &  WINDUS 
191  3 


All  rights  reserved 


CONTENTS 


(Where  not  otherwise  indicated,  the  translation  or 
poetic  setting  is  by  the  author.) 

PAGE 


INTRODUCTION 


THE    SALTAIR    NA    RANN,    OR    PSALTER 
OF    THE    VERSES 

I.  The  Creation  of  the  Universe    ....  3 

II.  The  Heavenly  Kingdom n 

III.  The  Forbidden  Fruit         .         .         .    :    ".  !'     .  20 

IV.  The  Fall  and  Expulsion  from  Paradise      .         .  22 
V.  The  Penance  of  Adam  and  Eve         .         .  31 

VI.  The  Death  of  Adam 43 

ANCIENT    PAGAN    POEMS 

The  Source  of  Poetic  Inspiration  (founded  on  transla- 
tion by  Whitley  Stokes)  .  .,.-..  53 

Amorgen's  Song  (founded  on  translation  by  John 

MacNeill) 57 


viii        THE    POEM-BOOK   OF   THE   GAEL 

PAGE 

The  Song  of  Childbirth 59 

Greeting  to  the  New-born  Babe  .  .  .  .61 

What  is  Love  ? 62 

Summons  to  Cuchulain  ....  -63 

Laegh's  Description  of  Fairy-land  ....  65 
The  Lamentation  of  Fand  when  she  is  about  to 

leave  Cuchulain 69 

Mider's  Call  to  Fairy- land 71 

The  Song  of  the  Fairies  .  .  .  A.  H.  Leahy  73 
The  great  Lamentation  of  Deirdre  for  the  Sons  of 

Usna 74 


OSSIANIC    POETRY 

First  Winter-Song    .          .          Alfred  Per  civ  al  Graves     81 

Second  Winter-Song 82 

In  Praise  of  May  .  .  .  .  T.  W.  Rollesion  83 
The  Isle  of  Arran  .  .  ,  .  .  .  -85 
The  Parting  of  Goll  from  his  Wife  ....  87 

Youth  and  Age 91 

Chill  Winter 92 

The  Sleep-song  of  Grainne  over  Dermuid  .  .  94 
The  Slaying  of  Conbeg  ....  -97 

The  Fairies'  Lullaby 98 

Song  of  the  Forest  Trees   .      Standish  Hayes  O'Grady     99 


CONTENTS 


EARLY    CHRISTIAN    POEMS 

PAGF 

St.  Patrick's  Breastplate   .         .         .     Kuno  Meyer  105 

Patrick's  Blessing  on  Munstcr   A  If  red  Perceval  Graves  107 

Columcille's  Farewell  to  Aran    .         .    Douglas  Hyde  109 

St.  Columba  in  lona           .         .         Eugene  O' Curry  in 

Hymn  to  the  Dawn  .  .  .  .•.,.,;.,.,•  •  "3 
The  Song  of  Manchan  the  Hermit  .  .  .  .117 

A  Prayer ,,....,.},....,[....,     .  119 

The  Loves  of  Liadan  and  Curithir    .        .f!,i;i>i?     •  121 

The  Lay  of  Prince  Marvan  .  ;,^.;;.j?..  ir- •.:*-,.  .  125 
The  Song  of  Crede,  daughter  of  Guare 

Alfred  Perceval  Graves  130 

The  Student  and  his  Cat  .  T  *'*  r...f.    Robin  Flower  132 

The  Song  of  the  Seven  Archangels  .        Ernest  Rhys  1 34 

The  Feilire  of  Adamnan  .         .         .     P.  J.  McCall  136 

The  Feathered  Hermit      .  n-\.    w-a  frl  ,d /p.  U- •;<"''      .  138 

An  Aphorism    .        .-  ,  e^*t'\uwc^*&)d  lv>»'     .  138 

The  Blackbird 139 

Deus  Meus         ....          George  Sigerson  140 

The  Soul's  Desire      .         .-        .-       V<       .         .         .  142 

Tempest  on  the  Sea  .  .  .  Robin  Flower  144 
The  Old  Woman  of  Bears  .  .  .  .  .147 
Gormliath's  Lament  for  Nial  Black-knee.  .  .151 


x  THE   POEM-BOOK  OF   THE   GAEL 

FACE 

The   Mother's   Lament    at    the    Slaughter    of    the 

Innocents  .         .         .       Alfred  Perceval  Graves  153 

Consecration     . 156 

Teach  me,  O  Trinity 157 

The  Shaving  of  Murdoch     Slandish  Hayes  O'Grady  159 

Eileen  Aroon .  161 


POEMS    OF    THE    DARK    DAYS 

The  Downfall  of  the  Gael         .  Sir  Samuel  Ferguson  165 
Address  to  Brian  O'Rourke  "  of  the  Bulwarks  "  to 

arouse  him  against  the  English          .         .         .169 
O'Hussey's  Ode  to  the  Maguire 

James  Clarence  Mangan  172 
A  Lament  for  the  Princes  of  Tyrone  and  Tyrconnell 

James  Clarence  Mangan  176 

The  County  of  Mayo          .         .         .       George  Fox  182 

The  Outlaw  of  Loch  Lene    Jeremiah  Joseph  Callanan  184 


The  Flower  of  Nut-brown  Maids 

.     186 
.     188 

My  Dark  Rosaleen    .         .    James 
The  Fair  Hills  of  Eire 
Shule  Aroon      .... 
Love's  Despair  .... 
The  Cruiskeen  Lawn 

Clarence  Mangan     190 
George  Sigerson     194 
.     (Traditional)     196 
George  Sigerson     198 
George  Sigerson    200 

CONTENTS  xi 

PAGE 

Eamonn  an  Chnuic,  or  "  Ned  of  the  Hill " 

P.  //.  Pcarse  202 

O  Druimin  donn  dilish 204 

Do  you  Remember  that  Night  ?        Eugene  O' Curry  206 

The  Exile's  Song 208 

The  Fisherman's  Keen      .         .         .     (Anonymous)  210 

Boatman's  Hymn     .         .          Sir  Samuel  Ferguson  213 
Dirge  on  the  Death  of  Art  O'Leary          .         .         .215 

The  Midnight  Court  (Prologue)          ....  224 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS  OF  THE  PEOPLE 

Hymn  to  the  Virgin  Mary 229 

Christmas  Hymn       ....    Douglas  Hyde  231 

O  Mary  of  Graces      ....   Douglas  Hyde  232 

The  Cattle-shed         ....        ,/      :.         .  233 

Hail  to  Thee,  O  Mary 234 

0  Mary,  O  blessed  Mother 235 

1  rest  with  Thee,  O  Jesus         .         .         .         .  '  236 

Thanksgiving  after  Food .         .         .         .         .         .236 

The  Sacred  Trinity 237 

0  King  of  the  Wounds     .         .         .         .'..:.  237 
Prayer  before  going  to  Sleep 238 

1  lie  down  with  God 239 

The  White  Paternoster 240 


THE   POEM-BOOK   OF   THE   GAEL 


PAGE 

Another  Version 241 

A  Night  Prayer 243 

Mary's  Vision 243 

The  Safe-guarding  of  my  Soul  be  Thine  .         .         .  244 

Another  Version 244 

The  Straying  Sheep 246 

Before  Communion 246 

May  the  sweet  Name  of  Jesus.         ....  247 

O  Blessed  Jesus 248 

Another  Version 248 

Morning  Wish  .  249 

On  Covering  the  Fire  for  the  Night          .         ;         .  249 

The  Man  who  Stands  Stiff        .         .    Douglas  Hyde  250 
Charm  against  Enemies    .         .         .        Lady  Wilde 
Charm  for  a  Pain  in  the  Side  .         .       Lady  Wilde 
Charm  against  Sorrow      .          .         .        Lady  Wilde 
The  Keening  of  Mary         .         .         .      P.  H .  Pearse 


LOVE-SONGS  AND  POPULAR  POETRY 


Cushla  ma  Chree 
The  Blackthorn 
Pastheen  Finn  . 
She  . 

Hopeless  Love  . 
The  Girl  I  Love 


252 

252 

253 
254 


Edward  Walsh  259 

260 

Sir  Samuel  Ferguson  263 

265 

266 

Jeremiah  Joseph  Callanan  267 


CONTENTS  xiii 

PACK 

Would  God  I  were   .          Katharine  Tynan-Hinkson  268 
Branch  of  the  Sweet  and  Early  Rose 

William  Drennan  269 

Is  truagh  gan  mise  I  Sasana        Thomas  MacDonagh  270 

The  Yellow  Bittern  .         .        .  Thomas  MacDonagh  271 

Have  you  been  at  Carrack  ?     .         .    Edward  Walsh  273 

Cashel  of  Munster    .          .           Sir  Samuel  Ferguson  275 

The  Snowy-breasted  Pearl        .         .      George  Petrie  277 

The  Dark  Maid  of  the  Valley  .         .      P.  J.  McCall  279 

The  Coolun        .         .         .         Sir  Samuel  Ferguson  281 

Ceann  dubh  dhileas  .         .         Sir  Samuel  Ferguson  283 

Ringleted  Youth  of  my  Love  .         .    Douglas  Hyde  284 

I  shall  not  Die  for  You    .         .         .  Padraic  Colum  286 

Donall  Oge        .,      ,.     ,    .        ,        ........         .  288 

The  Grief  of  a  Girl's  Heart       .         .         .         .         .291 

Death  the  Comrade 294 

Muirneen  of  the  Fair  Hair        .         .     Robin  Flower  296 

The  Red  Man's  Wife         .         .         .    Douglas  Hyde  298 

Another  Version 299 

My  Grief  on  the  Sea          .         .         .   Douglas  Hyde  302 

Or6  Mhor,  a  Mhdirin         .         .         .     P.  J.  McCall  304 

The  little  Yellow  Road       Seosamh  Mac  Cathmhaoil  306 

Reproach  to  the  Pipe        .         .         .         .         .         .  308 

Lament  of  Morir.n  Shehone  for  Miss  Mary  Bourke 

(Anonymous)  311 


THE   POEM-BOOK   OF   THE   GAEL 


PAGP 


Modereen  Rue  .  Katherine  Tynan-Hinkson  314 

The  Stars  Stand  Up 316 

The  Love-smart 318 

Well  for  Thee 319 

I  am  Raftery Douglas  Hyde  320 

Dust  hath  Closed  Helen's  Eye          .     Lady  Gregory  321 

The  Shining  Posy 324 

Love  is  a  Mortal  Disease 326 

I  am  Watching  my  Young  Calves  Sucking      .         .  328 

The  Narrow  Road 329 

Forsaken 332 

I  Follow  a  Star          .  Seosamh  Mac  Cathmhaoil  334 

LULLABIES    AND    WORKING    SONGS 

Nurse's  Song (Traditional)  337 

A  Sleep  Song P.  H .  Pearse  339 

The  Cradle  of  Gold    .         .      Alfred  Perceval  Graves  340 

Rural  Song 341 

Ploughing  Song 342 

A  Spinning-wheel  Ditty 344 

NOTES  ,        4 349 


INTRODUCTION 

"An  air  is  more  lasting  than  the  voice  of  the  birds, 
A  word  is  more  lasting  than  the  riches  of  the  world." 

THE  truth  of  this  Irish  proverb  strikes  us  forcibly  as  we 
glance  through  any  such  collection  ot  Gaelic  poetry  as  this, 
and  consider  how  these  lays,  the  dates  of  whose  composi- 
tion extend  from  the  eighth  to  the  present  century,  have 
been  preserved  to  us. 

On  the  border  of  some  grave  manuscript,  such  as  a  Latin 
copy  of  St.  Paul's  Epistles  or  a  transcript  of  Priscian,  a  stray 
quatrain  may  be  found  jotted  down  by  the  tired  scribe, 
recording  in  impromptu  verse  his  delight  at  the  note  of  a 
blackbird  whose  song  has  penetrated  his  cell,  his  amuse- 
ment at  the  gambols  of  his  cat  watching  a  mouse,  or  his 
reflections  on  a  piece  of  news  brought  to  him  by  some 
wandering  monk,  about  the  terror  of  the  viking  raids,  or  a 
change  of  dynasty  "  at  home  in  Ireland." 

Several  of  our  Ossianic  poems  are  taken  from  a  manu- 
script of  lays  collected  in  1626-27  in  and  about  the  Glens 
of  Antrim,  and  sent  out  to  while  away  the  tedium  of 
camp  life  to  an  Irish  officer  serving  in  the  Low  Countries, 
who  wearied  for  the  poems  and  stories  of  his  youth.  The 
religious  hymns  of  Murdoch  O'Daly  (Muredach  Alba- 
nach),  called  "  the  Scot "  on  account  of  his  affection  for 
his  adopted  country,  though  he  was  born  in  Connaught, 

b 


xvi       THE   POEM-BOOK  OF   THE  GAEL 

are  preserved  in  a  collection  of  poems  gathered  in  the 
Western  Highlands,  many  Irish  poems,  even  from  so 
great  a  distance  as  Munster,  being  found  in  it. 

The  Saltair  na  Rann  or  "  Psalter  of  the  Verses,"  the 
most  important  religious  poem  of  ancient  Ireland,  is 
preserved  in  one  copy  only.  It  seems  as  though  a 
miracle  had  sometimes  intervened  to  guard  for  later 
generations  some  single  version  of  a  valuable  tract  at 
home  or  abroad ;  but  it  is  a  miracle  which  we  could 
have  wished  to  have  taken  place  more  often,  when  we 
reflect  upon  the  large  number  of  manuscripts  forever  lost 
to  us. 

Many  of  the  most  beautiful  of  the  ancient  poems,  as 
well  as  of  the  popular  songs,  are  anonymous ;  they  are 
frequently  found  mixed  up  with  material  of  the  most 
arid  description,  genealogies,  annals,  or  miscellaneous 
matter.  It  is  easier  to  guess  from  the  tone  of  the  poems 
under  what  mood  of  mind  they  were  composed  than  to 
tell  exactly  who  wrote  them.  Even  when  they  come 
down  to  us  adorned  with  the  name  of  some  well-known 
saint  or  poet,  we  have  an  uncertain  feeling  about  the 
accuracy  of  the  ascription,  when  we  find  a  poem  whose 
language  cannot  be  earlier  than  the  tenth  or  eleventh 
century  confidently  connected  with  a  writer  who  lived 
two  or  three  centuries  earlier.  In  some  cases,  no  doubt, 
the  versions  we  possess,  though  modernised  in  language 
and  rhythm,  are  in  reality  old ;  in  others  the  ascription 
probably  bears  witness  to  the  desire  of  the  author  or  his 
public  to  win  esteem  for  his  work  by  adorning  it  with 
some  famous  name.  Some  of  these  poems,  of  which  only 
one  copy  has  come  down  to  us,  were,  however,  well 
known  in  an  earlier  day,  and  are  quoted  in  old  tracts  on 
Irish  metric  as  examples  of  the  metres  used  in  the  bardic 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

schools.  It  is  evident  that  though  standards  of  taste 
may  change,  the  recognition  of  what  is  really  beautiful 
in  poetry  remains  as  a  settled  instinct  in  man's  nature. 
Many  of  those  poems  which  now  appeal  most  strongly 
to  ourselves  took  rank  as  verses  of  acknowledged  merit 
nearer  to  the  time  of  their  composition.  This  we  can 
deduce  from  their  use  as  examples  worthy  of  imitation 
in  these  mediaeval  Irish  text-books,  where  the  names  of 
songs  we  still  admire  are  quoted  as  specimens  of  good 
poetry. 

It  is  remarkable  that  a  very  large  proportion  of  fine 
poetry  comes  to  us  from  the  period  of  the  Norse  invasions, 
a  time  which  we  are  accustomed  to  think  of  as  one  con- 
tinuous series  of  wars,  raids,  and  burnings ;  but  which, 
if  we  may  judge  by  what  has  come  down  to  us  of  its  verse, 
shows  us  that  the  Irish  gentleman  of  that  day  had  ideas 
of  refinement  that  raise  him  far  above  the  mere  fighting 
clansman  ;  his  critical  view  of  literature  was  a  severe  one. 
The  fine  freedom  shown  in  many  of  these  poems  is  sur- 
prising, both  as  regards  the  sentiments  and  the  metres. 
They  possess  a  mastery  of  form  that  argues  a  high  culti- 
vation, not  only  of  the  special  art  of  poetry,  but  of  the 
whole  intellectual  faculties  of  the  writers. 

Some  of  these  poems  are  strangely  modern,  even  fin 
de  siecle  in  their  tone.  The  poem  of  the  "  Old  Woman 
of  Beare  "  has  often  been  compared  to  Villon's  "  Regrets 
de  la  Belle  Heaulmiere  ja  parvenue  a  viellesse,"  or  to 
Beranger's  "  Grand'mere."  But  the  Irish  poem  is  far 
more  artistically  wrought  than  either  of  these  compara- 
tively modern  poems.  For  in  the  ancient  verses,  the  old 
woman  is  set,  a  lonely  and  forsaken  figure,  against  the 
background  of  the  ebbing  tide,  and  the  slow  throbs  of 
her  heart,  worn  with  age  and  sin,  beat  in  unison  with  the 


xviii     THE  POEM-BOOK   OF  THE   GAEL 

retreating  motion  of  the  wave.  There  is  also  a  further 
significance  in  the  poem  which  we  must  not  miss.  It  is 
the  earliest  of  the  long  series  of  allegorical  songs  in  which 
Ireland  is  depicted  under  the  form  of  a  woman  ;  though, 
unlike  her  successors  of  a  later  day,  she  is  here  represented, 
not  as  a  fair  maiden,  a  Grainne  Mhaol,  or  Kathleen  ni 
Houlahan,  or  Little  Mary  Cuillenan,  but  as  an  aged  joy- 
less hag,  forlorn  and  censorious,  bemoaning  the  loss  of 
bygone  pleasures,  and  the  gravity  of  her  nun's  veil.  The 
'*  Cailleach  Bheara,"  the  "  Hag  "  or  "  Nun  of  Beare  "  is 
known  in  many  place-names  in  Ireland.  It  is  on  Slieve 
na  Callighe,  or  the  "  Hill  of  the  Hag  "  or  "  Nun,"  in 
Co.  Meath  that  the  great  cairns  and  tumuli  of  Lough 
Crew  are  found  ;  it  was  evidently,  like  the  neighbour- 
hood of  the  Boyne,  a  place  of  pagan  sanctity ;  and  such 
names  as  Tober  na  Callighe  Bheara,  the  "  Well  of  the  Hag 
of  Beare,"  are  found  in  different  parts  of  the  country. 
The  "  Hag  of  Beare  "  seem:  to  be  symbolic  of  pagan 
Ireland,  regretting  the  stricter  regime  of  Christianity, 
and  the  changes  that  time  had  brought  about.  The 
curious  legend  which  prefaces  the  poem  suggests  the 
same  idea.  She  is  said  to  have  seen  seven  periods  of 
youth,  and  to  have  outlived  tribes  and  races  descended 
from  her.  For  a  hundred  years  of  old  age  she  wore  the 
veil  of  a  nun.  "  Thereupon  old  age  and  infirmity  came 
upon  her."  We  catch  the  same  note  of  regret  for  the 
days  of  paganism  through  many  legends  and  poems.  It 
is  mystical  and  veiled  in  such  stories  as  that  of  "  King 
Murtough  and  the  Witch-woman  "  ;  it  is  fierce,  but  also 
often  touched  by  the  grotesque,  in  the  innumerable 
colloquies  between  Patrick  and  Oisin  (Ossian),  the  last 
of  the  ancient  pagan  heroes.  But  in  all  this  there  is  a 
note  of  apology.  It  is  not  so  outspoken  in  its  revolt 


INTRODUCTION  ibc 

against  the  new  system  of  life  and  thought  as  are  the 
Norse  chronicles  and  the  Icelandic  Sagas.  After  all, 
Christianity  was  an  accomplished  thing ;  quietly  but 
persistently  it  took  its  place,  sweeping  into  its  fold  chiefs 
and  common  folk  alike.  No  resistance  could  stop  this 
universal  progress.  And  the  literary  man  or  the  peasant, 
dwelling  on  his  early  legends,  the  outcome  of  a  state  of 
thought  passed  or  passing  away,  dared  only  half-heartedly 
bemoan  the  former  days,  when  wars  and  raids,  the 
"  Creach  "  and  the  "  Tain  "  were  the  highest  way  of 
life  for  a  brave  man,  and  no  Christian  doctrine  of  forgive- 
ness of  enemies  and  charity  to  foes  had  come  in  to  perplex 
his  thoughts  and  confuse  their  issues.  The  Raid  re- 
mained, it  was  an  essential  part  of  actual  life ;  and 
burnings  and  wars  went  on  as  before,  but  they  were 
no  longer,  theoretically,  at  least,  matters  to  win  praise 
and  honour,  they  were  condemned  beforehand  by  the 
Christian  ethic.  A  chief,  to  hold  his  own,  must  still 
throw  open  doors  of  hospitality  to  his  tribe,  must  dispense 
largesse  to  all-comers,  must  gather  about  his  board  the 
neighbours  and  dependents  in  riotous  assemblies  and 
festivals.  But  all  this  the  Christian  monk  and  priest 
looked  upon  with  suspicion ;  they  bade  him  fill  his 
thoughts  with  a  future  Kingdom,  rather  than  with  the 
earthly  one  to  which  he  had  been  born,  and  to  keep  his 
soul  in  humble  readiness  by  prayers  and  fastings,  by 
seclusion  and  self-sacrifice.  The  great  disjointure  is 
everywhere  apparent ;  chiefs  are  seen  flying  from  their 
plain  duties  to  their  clans  in  order  to  win  a  heavenly 
chiefdom,  not  of  this  world  ;  kings  retire  into  hermitages, 
and  whole  villages  take  on  the  aspect  and  system  of  life 
of  the  monastery.  To  escape  a  network  of  religious 
service  so  closely  spread  throughout  the  country  was 


xx        THE   POEM-BOOK  OF  THE   GAEL 

impossible ;  all  that  the  half-convinced  could  do  was  to 
relieve  his  soul  in  legend  and  song  and  jest.  Hence  the 
large  amount  of  this  literature  of  protest,  coming  to  us 
curiously  side  by  side  with  poems  breathing  the  very 
spirit  of  religious  devotion,  the  work  of  peaceful  recluse 
or  retired  monk. 

For  the  movement  had  its  other  aspect.  If  the  warrior 
or  chief  resigned  much  in  becoming  a  Christian  monk, 
there  is  no  doubt  that  he  gained  as  well.  Contempor- 
aneous religious  poetry  in  the  Middle  Ages  is  elsewhere 
overshadowed  by  the  cast  of  theologic  thought.  The 
"  world "  from  which  the  saint  must  flee  is  no  mere 
symbol,  denoting  the  perils  of  evil  courses  ;  it  is  the  actual 
visible  earth,  its  hills  and  trees  and  flowers,  and  the  beauty 
of  its  human  inhabitants  that  are  in  themselves  a  danger 
and  a  snare.  St.  Bernard  walking  round  the  Lake  of 
Geneva,  unconscious  of  its  presence  and  blind  to  its 
loveliness,  is  a  fit  symbol  of  the  tendency  of  the  religious 
mind  in  the  Middle  Ages.  Sin  and  repentance,  the  fall 
and  redemption,  hell  and  heaven,  occupied  the  religious 
man's  every  thought ;  beside  such  weighty  themes  the 
outward  life  became  almost  negligible.  If  he  dared  to 
turn  his  mind  towards  it  at  all,  it  was  in  order  to  extract 
from  it  some  warning  of  peril,  or  some  allegory  of  things 
divine.  In  essence,  the  "  world  "  was  nothing  else  than  a 
peril  to  be  renounced  and  if  possible  entirely  abandoned. 

But  the  Irish  monk  showed  no  such  inclination, 
suffered  no  such  terrors.  His  joy  in  nature  grew  with  his 
loving  association  with  her  moods.  He  refused  to  mingle 
the  idea  of  evil  with  what  God  had  made  so  good.  If  he 
sought  for  symbols,  he  found  only  symbols  of  purity  and 
holiness.  The  pool  beside  his  hut,  the  rill  that  flowed 
across  his  green,  became  to  his  watchful  eye  the  mani- 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

festation  of  a  divine  spirit  washing  away  sin  ;  if  the  birds 
sang  sweetly  above  his  door,  they  were  the  choristers  of 
God ;  if  the  wild  beasts  gathered  to  their  nightly  tryst, 
were  they  not  the  congregation  of  intelligent  beings 
whom  God  Himself  would  most  desire  ?  The  friendly 
badgers  or  foxes  of  the  wood  that  came  forth,  undismayed 
by  the  white  or  brown-robed  figure  who  seemed  to  have 
taken  up  his  lasting  abode  amongst  them,  became  to 
his  mind  fellow-monks,  authorised  members  of  his 
strange  community.  Amongst  his  feathered  and  furred 
associates,  he  read  his  Psalms  and  Hours  in  peace ;  sang 
his  periodic  hymn  to  St.  Hilary  or  St.  Brigit,  and  per- 
formed his  innumerable  genuflexions  and  "  cross-vigils." 
Here,  from  time  to  time,  he  poured  forth  in  spontaneous 
song  his  joy  in  the  life  that  he  had  elected  as  his  own. 
When  King  Guaire  of  Connaught  stands  at  the  door  of 
the  hermitage  in  which  his  brother  Marvan  had  taken 
refuge  from  the  bustle  of  court  life,  and  asks  him  why  he 
had  sacrificed  so  much,  Marvan  bursts  forth  into  a  poem 
in  praise  of  his  hermit  life,  and  the  King  is  fain  to  con- 
fess that  the  choice  of  the  recluse  was  the  wiser  one ; 
when  St.  Cellach  of  Killala  is  dragged  into  the  forest 
by  his  comrades  and  threatened  with  death,  not  even  the 
sight  of  the  four  murderers  lying  at  his  feet  with  swords 
ready  drawn  in  their  hands  to  slay  him  can  prevent  him 
from  greeting  the  Dawn  in  a  beautiful  song. 

The  saint  who,  like  St.  Finan,  lived  shut  up  within 
his  cell,  in  many  cases  lost  his  mental  balance,  and  de- 
generated into  a  mere  Fakir,  winning  heaven  by  the 
miseries  of  his  self-imposed  mortifications ;  but  the 
monk  who  trusted  himself  to  untrammelled  intercourse 
with  nature,  preserved  his  underlying  sanity.  For 
whether  or  no  the  hundreds  of  daily  genuflexions  were 


xxii      THE  POEM-BOOK  OF  THE  GAEL 

performed,  the  patch  of  ground  around  the  solitary's 
cell  must  be  ploughed  or  sown  or  reaped ;  the  apples 
must  be  gathered  or  the  honeysuckles  twined.  The 
salmon  or  herring  must  be  netted  or  angled  for.  Thus 
nature  and  its  needs  kept  the  hermit  on  the  straight  and 
simple  paths  of  physical  and  mental  healthfulness,  how- 
ever he  might  try  to  escape  into  a  wilderness  of  his  own 
imaginings. 

The  early  poetry,  we  feel,  is  on  the  whole  joyous ; 
whether  pagan  or  Christian  in  tone,  it  arises  from  a  happy 
heart.  The  pagan  is  more  robust,  more  vigorous ;  the 
Christian  gentler  and  more  reflective ;  but  alike  they  are 
free  from  the  mournful  note  of  despair  that  throws  a 
settled  gloom  over  much  of  the  later  literature. 

The  Ossianic  poems  have  quite  a  distinctive  tone  ; 
in  them  we  catch  the  abounding  energy  belonging  to  the 
days  of  the  hunt  of  the  wild  native  boar  or  stag,  when  all 
the  country  was  one  open  hunting-ground,  fit  for  men 
whose  ideal  was  that  of  the  sportsman  and  the  warrior. 
Besides  romantic  tales,  we  have  a  whole  body  of  poetry, 
loosely  strung  together  under  the  covering  name  of 
Oisin,  or  Ossian,  and  usually  ascribed  to  him  or  to 
Fionn  mac  Cumhall,  his  father  and  chief,  dealing  with  the 
themes  of  war  and  of  the  chase.  They  are  often  in  the 
nature  of  the  protest  of  the  fighting  and  hunting-man 
against  the  claims  of  religion.  He  is  perpetually  proclaim- 
ing that  the  sounds  and  sights  of  the  forest  and  sea- 
shore are  more  dear  to  him  than  any  others,  and  when  he  is 
called  upon  to  give  the  first  place  to  the  duties  of  religion, 
placed  before  him,  as  it  usually  is,  in  its  most  enfeebling 
aspect,  he  raises  the  stout  protest  that  the  hunting- 
horn  has  greater  attractions  for  him  than  the  tinkling 
bell  which  calls  to  prayer. 


INTRODUCTION 

I  have  heard  music  sweeter  far 
Than  hymns  and  psalms  of  clerics  are  ; 
The  blackbird's  pipe  on  Letterlea, 
The  Dord  Finn's  wailing  melody. 

'  The  thrush's  song  of  Glenna-Scal, 
The  hound's  deep  bay  at  twilight's  fall, 
The  barque's  sharp  grating  on  the  shore, 
Than  cleric's  chants  delight  me  more." 


There  is  the  ring  of  the  obstinate  pagan  about  such 
verses ;  and  many  poems  are  wholly  occupied  by  an  un- 
holy wrangling  between  the  representative  of  the  old 
order,  Oisin,  and  the  representative  of  the  new,  St. 
Patrick.  The  poems  themselves  probably  date  from  a 
far  later  period  than  either. 

More  healthy  are  the  true  hunting  songs.  Many  of 
these  are  in  praise  of  the  Isle  of  Arran,  in  the  Clyde,  a 
favourite  resort  during  the  sporting-season  both  for  the 
Scottish  and  Irish  huntsman.  In  the  poem  we  have 
called  "  The  Isle  of  Arran,"  from  the  "  Colloquy  of  the 
Ancient  Men,"  the  charm  of  the  Isle  is  well  described. 
We  have  in  it  the  same  pure  joy  in  natural  scenery  that 
we  find  in  the  poems  of  the  religious  hermits,  but  the 
tone  is  manlier  and  more  emphatic. 

Occasionally  a  fiercer  note  creeps  into  the  hunter's 
mood.  The  chase  of  the  boar  and  deer  was  not  without 
its  dangers.  Winter,  and  the  unfriendly  clan  hard  by, 
or  the  lean  prowling  wolf  at  night,  were  real  terrors  to 
the  small  companies  encamped  on  the  open  hill-side  or 
in  the  forest.  Though  the  warrior  in  peaceful  times 
loved  the  chase  of  swine  and  stag,  his  hand  had  done  and 
was  always  ready  to  do  sterner  work  when  opportunity 
offered.  The  poem  "  Chill  Winter  "  has  a  note  of  almost 


xxiv     THE   POEM-BOOK  OF   THE   GAEL 

savage  exultation  ;  the  old  fighter  turns  from  his  present 
perils  and  discomforts  to  remember  the  warrior  on- 
slaughts which  had  left  the  glen  below  him  silent,  and  its 
once  happy  inhabitants  cold  in  death  ;  colder,  as  he 
gladly  reflects,  than  even  he  himself  feels  on  this  chill 
winter's  night.  It  is  the  voice  of  the  ancient  warrior, 
who  thought  no  shame  of  slaying,  but  thanked  God  when 
he  had  knocked  down  his  fellow.  Whether  he,  in  his 
turn,  were  the  undermost  man,  or  whether  he  escaped, 
he  cared  not  at  all. 

Two  difficulties  face  the  modern  reader  in  coming  for 
the  first  time  upon  genuine  Irish  literature,  whether 
poetry  or  prose.  The  first  is  the  curious  feeling  that  we 
are  hung  between  two  worlds,  the  seen  and  the  unseen ; 
that  we  are  not  quite  among  actualities,  or  rather  that  we 
do  not  know  where  the  actual  begins  or  where  it  ends. 
Even  in  dealing  with  history  we  may  find  ourselves 
suddenly  wafted  away  into  some  illusory  spirit-world  with 
which  the  historian  seems  to  deal  with  the  same  sober 
exactness  as  in  detailing  any  fact  of  ordinary  life.  The 
faculty  of  discerning  between  the  actual  and  the  imagi- 
nary is  absent,  as  it  is  absent  in  imaginative  children ; 
often,  indeed,  the  illusory  quite  overpowers  the  real,  as 
it  does  in  the  life  of  the  Irish  peasant  to-day. 

There  is,  in  most  literatures,  a  meeting-place  where  the 
Mythological  and  the  Historic  stand  in  close  conjunction, 
the  one  dying  out  as  the  other  takes  its  place.  Only  in 
Ireland  we  never  seem  to  reach  this  point ;  we  can  never 
anywhere  say,  "  Here  ends  legend,  here  begins  history." 
In  all  Irish  writing  we  find  poetry  and  fact,  dreams  and 
realities,  exact  detail  and  wild  imagination,  linked  closely 
hand  in  hand.  This  is  the  Gael  as  revealed  in  his  litera- 
ture. At  first  we  are  inclined  to  doubt  the  accuracy  of 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

any  part  of  the  story  ;  but,  as  we  continue  our  examina- 
tion, we  are  surprised  at  the  substantial  correctness  of  the 
ancient  records,  so  far  as  we  are  able  to  test  them,  whether 
on  the  historical  or  on  the  social  side.  The  poet  is  never 
wholly  poet,  he  is  also  practical  man  ;  and  the  historian 
is  never  wholly  chronicler  and  annalist,  he  is  also  at  the 
back  of  his  mind  folklorist,  lover  of  nature,  dreamer.  It 
is  the  puzzle  and  the  charm  of  Ireland. 

A  good  example  of  this  is  the  very  beautiful  anonymous 
Irish  poem,  rich  in  poetic  imagery,  addressed  to  Ragnall 
or  Reginald,  son  of  Somerled,  lord  of  the  Isles  from  1164- 
1204.  This  poem,  written  for  an  historical  prince, 
begins  with  a  description  of  the  joys  of  the  fairy  palace, 
"  Emain  of  the  Apples,"  whence  this  favoured  prince  is 
supposed  by  the  poet  to  have  issued  forth  : 

"  Many,  in  white  grass-fresh  Emain, 
Of  men  on  whom  a  noble  eye  gazes 
(The  rider  of  a  bay  steed  impetuously) 
Through  a  countenance  of  foxglove  hue, 

Shapely,  branch-fresh. 

"  Many,  in  Emain  of  the  pastures, 
From  which  its  noble  feast  has  not  parted, 
Are  the  fields  ploughed  in  autumn 
For  the  pure  corn  of  the  Lord's  Body." 

The  poet's  mind  wanders  from  the  ancient  Emain, 
capital  of  Ulster,  to  the  allegorical  Emain,  the  dwelling 
of  the  gods  or  fairy-hosts,  who  were  thought  of  as  in- 
habiting the  great  tumuli  on  the  Boyne  ;  again,  he  trans- 
plants his  fairy-land  to  the  home  of  Ragnall,  and  seems 
to  place  it  in  Mull  or  the  Isle  of  Man,  which  was  indeed 
the  especial  abode  of  Manannan,  the  Ocean-god  and 
Ruler  of  Fairy-land. 


Txvi     THE   POEM-BOOK   OF  THE   GAEL 

"  What  God  from  Brugh  of  the  Boyne, 
Thou  son  of  noble  Sabia, 
Thou  beauteous  apple-rod 
Created  thee  with  her  in  secret  ? 

"  O  Man  of  the  white  steed, 
O  Man  of  the  black  swan, 
Of  the  fierce  band  and  the  gentle  sorrow, 
Of  the  sharp  blade  and  the  lasting  fame. 

"  Thy  fair  side  thou  hast  bathed, 
The  grey  branch  of  thy  eyes  like  summer  showers, 
Over  thy  locks,  O  descendant  of  Fergus, 
The  wind  of  Paradise  has  breathed." l 

We  recognise  that  this  is  fine  poetry,  but  we  feel  also 
that  it  needs  a  specialised  education  thoroughly  to  under- 
stand it.  The  world  from  which  it  hails  is  not  our  world, 
and  to  comprehend  it  we  must  do  more  than  translate,  we 
must  add  notes  and  glossary  at  every  line  ;  but  no  poetry, 
especially  poetry  under  the  initial  disadvantage  of  a  trans- 
lation, could  retain  its  qualities  under  such  treatment. 

In  all  the  ancient  verse  we  meet  with  these  obstacles. 
Even  much  of  the  most  imaginative  Ossianic  poetry  be- 
comes too  difficult  from  this  point  of  view  for  the 
untrained  reader. 

Take  the  fine  poem  detailing  the  history  of  the  Shield 
of  Fionn.  Poetic  addresses  to  noted  weapons  are  com- 
mon enough,  and  are  not  confined  to  Irish  literature  ; 
but  the  adventures  of  this  shield  pass  beyond  the  ordinary 
uses  of  human  battles,  and  enter  the  realm  of  mythology. 
The  very  name  given  to  it,  the  "  Dripping  Ancient 
Hazel,"  carries  us  into  a  world  of  poetic  imagination. 

1  Printed  in  Skene's  Celtic  Scotland,  Hi.  Appen.  2,  p.  410,  from 
a  seventeenth  century  copy  belonging  to  William  Hennessy,  com- 
pared with  the  copy  in  the  Book  of  Fermoy. 


INTRODUCTION  xxvii 

"  Scarce  is  there  on  the  firm  earth,  whether  it  be  man  or 

woman,  one  that  can  tell  why  thy  name  abroad 

is  known  as  the  Dripping  Ancient  Hazel. 
"  'Twas  Balor  that  besought  Lugh  before  his  beheading  : 

'  Set  my  head  above  thy  own  comely  head  and 

earn  my  blessing.' 
"  That  blessing  Lugh  Longarm  did  not  earn  ;    he  set  up 

the  head  above  a  wave  of  the  east  in  a  fork  of  hazel 

before  him. 
"  A   poisonous  milk  drips  down   out  of  that  hardened 

tree  ;    through  the  baneful  drip,  it  was  not  slight, 

the  tree  split  right  in  two. 
"  For  full  fifty  years  the  hazel  stood,  but  ever  it  was  a 

cause  of  tears,  the  abode  of  vultures  and  ravens. 
"Manannan  of  the  round  eye  went  into  the  wilderness 

of  the  Mount  of  White-Hazel  ;    there  he  saw  a 

shadeless  tree  among  the  trees  that  vied  in  beauty. 
"  Manannan  sets  workmen  without  delay  to  dig  it  out  of 

the  firm  earth.     Mighty  was  the  deed  ! 
"  From  the  root  of  that  tree  arises  a  poisonous  vapour  ; 

there  were  killed  by  it  (perilous  the  consequence) 

nine  of  the  working  folk. 
"  Now  I  say  to  you,  and  let  the  prophecy  be  sought  out : 

Around  the  mighty  hazel  without  reproach   was 

found  the  cause  of  many  a  woe. 

"  It  was  from  that  shield  that  Eitheor  of  the  smooth 
brown  face  was  called  '  Son  of  Hazel,' — for  this  was 
the  hazel  that  he  worshipped."  1 

Or  take  again  the  strange  mythological  poem  of  the 
"  Crane-bag,"  made  out  of  the  skin  of  a  wandering 
haunted  crane,  which  had  once  been  a  woman;  condemned 
for  "  two  hundred  white  years  "  to  dwell  in  "  the  house 
of  Manannan,"  i.e.  in  the  wastes  of  the  ocean,  ever  seeking 
and  never  finding  land.  When  tha  wanderings  came  to 

1  Duanaire  Finn,  edited  by  John  MacNeill,  pp.  34,  134  (Irish 
Texts  Society,  1904). 


xxviii     THE   POEM-BOOK   OF   THE   GAEL 

an  end,  and  the  unhappy  Crane-woman  died,  Manannan 
(the  Ocean-god)  made  of  her  skin  a  bag  into  which  he  put 
"  every  precious  thing  he  had  ;  the  shirt  of  Manannan 
and  his  knife,  the  girdle  of  Goibniu  (the  Vulcan  of  Irish 
legend) ;  the  king  of  Scotland's  shears,  the  king  of  Loch- 
lann's  helmet,  and  the  bones  of  the  swine  of  Asal — these 
were  the  treasures  that  the  Crane-bag  held.  .  .  .  When 
the  sea  was  full,  its  treasures  were  seen  in  its  midst ; 
when  the  fierce  sea  was  on  ebb,  the  Crane-bag  was 
empty."  The  story  has  the  impress  of  great  age,  and 
manifold  changes ;  it  belongs  to  the  period  when  the 
gods  were  not  yet  transformed  into  human  beings,  but 
were  still  primaeval  elemental  powers,  impersonations  of 
fire  and  light  and  water,  and  the  wisdom  that  is  above 
mankind.  But  the  link  is  lost,  and  the  story  remains  a 
suggestion  only,  vague  and  indistinct.  As  an  image  of 
the  hollow  ocean,  holding  the  treasures  of  the  Sea-god, 
the  idea  is,  however,  full  of  force  and  beauty.1 

The  second  difficulty,  which  is  closely  connected  with 
the  first,  lies  in  the  retention  of  the  ancient  and  un- 
familiar nomenclature ;  the  old  geographical  and  family 
names,  which  have  dropped  out  of  actual  use,  being 
everywhere  found  in  the  poetry. 

Scotland  is  still  Alba  in  Irish,  as  it  was  in  the  sixth 
century ;  Eire  (gen.  Erinn)  is  the  ordinary  name  for 
Ireland,  not  only  in  poetry,  as  is  commonly  supposed,  but 
in  the  living  language  of  the  country.  But  it  has  besides 
an  abundance  of  specially  poetic  names,  such  as  Inisfail, 
"  the  island  of  Destiny,"  Banba,  Fodla,  &c.,  connected 
with  early  legends,  and  these,  if  we  are  to  understand 
the  poetry,  we  must  accustom  ourselves  to.  England  is 

1  For  this  poem  see  Duanaire  Finn,  edited  by  John  MacNeill 
(Irish  Texts  Society,  1904),  pp.  ai,  118. 


INTRODUCTION  xxix 

still  to-day  the  land  of  the  Saxons  to  the  Gael,  and 
its  inhabitants  are  the  "  Sassenachs  "  ;  the  Irishman  per- 
sists in  disregarding  the  coming  of  the  Angles.  We 
may  talk  of  the  extinction  of  the  Gaelic  tongue,  but  in 
his  poetry,  as  in  every  place-name  of  stream  or  hill  or 
townland  all  over  the  country,  it  is  about  us  still.  In  the 
poetry  we  are  back  in  Gaelic  Ireland ;  the  old  tribal  dis- 
tinctions, the  old  clan  names,  meet  us  on  every  page. 
What  does  the  modern  man  know  of  Leth  Cuinn  or  Leth 
Mogha,  the  ancient  divisions  of  the  North  and  South, 
or  of  the  stories  which  gave  them  birth  ?  What  of 
Magh  Breagh  or  Magh  Murtheimne  ?  What  of  Emain 
Macha  and  Kincora  ?  Who,  again,  are  the  Clann  Fiach- 
rach  or  the  Eoghanacht,  or  the  Children  of  Ir  or  Eiber  ? 
Even  before  the  much  later  titles  of  Thomond  and 
Desmond,  of  Tyrconnell  and  Tyrowen  he  is  somewhat 
at  a  loss. 

But  to  the  bard  the  past  is  always  present,  the  ancient 
nomenclature  is  never  extinct.  The  legend  which  caused 
the  River  Boyne  to  be  called  "  The  fore-arm  of  Nuada's 
wife,"  or  the  tumuli  on  its  banks  to  be  thought  of  as  the 
"  Elfmounds  of  the  wife  of  Nechtan,"  are  familiar  to  him  ; 
and  to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  mythological  poetry 
we  must  know  something  of  Irish  folklore  and  tradition. 
Many  of  these  expressions  have  a  high  imaginative  signifi- 
cance, as  when  the  sea  is  called  the  "  Plain  of  Ler"  (the 
elder  Irish  Sea-god),  or  its  waves  are  "  the  tresses  of 
Manannan's  wife  "  or  the  "  Steeds  of  Manannan." 

Of  the  large  body  of  bardic  poetry  we  have  been  un- 
able to  give  an  adequate  representation,  partly  from 
considerations  of  space,  but  also  because  we  are  not  yet, 
until  a  larger  quantity  of  this  poetry  has  been  published, 
able  to  estimate  its  actual  poetic  value.  Much  fine  poetry 


xxx       THE   POEM-BOOK   OF   THE   GAEL 

by  the  historic  bards  undoubtedly  exists,  but  we  have  as 
yet  only  a  few  published  fragments  to  choose  from.  The 
first  specimen  we  give,  Teigue  Dall  O'Higgin's  appeal  to 
O'Rourke  of  the  Bulwarks  (na  murtka),  must  stand  as  an 
example  of  much  similar  poetry  in  and  about  his  own  day. 

The  call  to  union  against  England  or  against  some  local 
enemy  sounds  loud  and  constant  in  the  bardic  poems. 
There  is  much  anti-English  poetry  ;  poetry  which  has  for 
its  object  the  endeavour  to  unite  for  a  single  purpose  the 
chiefs  who  had  split  up  the  provinces  into  small  divisions 
under  separate  leaders,  each  fighting  for  his  own  hand. 

To  stir  up  the  lagging  or  too  peaceful  chief  was  one  of 
the  prime  duties  of  the  bard ;  to  address  to  him  con- 
gratulations on  his  accession,  or  to  bewail  him  when  he 
died,  was  his  official  function  ;  and  to  judge  by  the  quan- 
tity of  paper  covered  with  these  laudatory  effusions  and 
elegies,  he  performed  his  task  with  punctilious  care.  It 
was  likely  that  he  would  do  so,  for  the  fees  for  a  poem 
that  gave  satisfaction  were  substantial.  We  miss  the 
family  bard  in  these  days  ;  there  is  no  one  at  hand  to  praise 
indifferently  all  that  we  do. 

The  bardic  poetry  attracted  the  genius  of  Mangan, 
and  his  "  Farewell  to  Patrick  Sarsfield  "  and  O'Hussey's 
"  Ode  to  the  Maguire,"  are  not  only  fine  poetry,  but 
excellent  representations  of  two  of  the  finest  of  the  bardic 
poems.  Elsewhere  in  his  poems,  we  have  usually  too 
much  Mangan  to  feel  that  the  tone  of  the  original  is 
faithfully  conveyed.  His  soaring  poem,  "  The  Dark 
Rosaleen,"  can  hardly  be  said  to  represent  the  Irish 
"  Roisin  Dubh,"  of  which,  for  purposes  of  comparison,  we 
give  a  literal  rendering ;  beautiful  as  Mangan's  poem  is, 
it  has  to  our  mind  lost  something  of  the  exquisite  grace 
of  the  original. 


INTRODUCTION  xxxi 

It  may  be  well  to  indicate  here  the  relations  between 
Mangan's  version  and  the  original  in  the  poem  in  which 
he  keeps  most  strictly  to  the  words  of  the  bard.  "  O'Hus- 
sey's  Ode  to  the  Maguire,"  that  fine  address  of  the 
Northern  bard,  O'Hussey,  to  his  young  chief,  whose  war- 
like foray  into  Munster  in  the  depth  of  winter  filled  his 
mind  with  anxiety  and  distress.  A  literal  translation  of 
the  opening  passage  reads  as  follows : 

"Too  cold  for  Hugh  I  deem  this  night,  the  drops  so 
heavily  downpouring  are  a  cause  for  sadness; 
biting  is  this  night's  cold — woe  is  me  that  such  is 
our  companion's  lot. 

In  the  clouds'  bosoms  the  water-gates  of  heaven  are 
flung  wide  ;  small  pools  are  turned  by  it  to  seas, 
all  its  destructiveness  hath  the  firmament  spewed 
out. 

A  pain  to  me  that  Hugh  Maguire  to-night  lies  in  a 
stranger's  land,  'neath  lurid  glow  of  lightning- 
bolts  and  angry  armed  clouds'  clamour  ; 

A  woe  to  us  that  in  the  province  of  Clann  Daire  (South- 
west Munster)  our  well-beloved  is  couched,  betwixt 
a  coarse  cold-wet  and  grass-clad  ditch  and  the 
impetuous  fury  of  the  heavens."  l 

But  it  is  not,  after  all,  the  verses  of  the  bards,  even  of 
the  best  of  them,  that  will  survive.  It  is  the  tender  religi- 
ous songs,  the  passionate  love-songs,  the  exquisite  addresses 
to  nature  ;  those  poems  which  touch  in  us  the  common 
ground  of  deep  human  feeling.  Whether  it  came  to  us 
from  the  sixth  century  or  from  the  sixteenth,  the  song 
of  Crede  for  the  dead  man,  whom  she  had  grown  to  love 
only  when  he  was  dying,  would  equally  move  us ;  the 
passionate  cry  of  Liadan  after  Curithir  would  wring  our 

1  O'Grady's  Catalogue  of  Irish  Manuscripts  in  the  British 
Museum,  p.  451. 

C 


xxxi'i      THE   POEM-BOOK   OF  THE   GAEL 

hearts  whatever  century  produced  it.     The  voice  of  love 
is  alike  in  every  age.     It  has  no  date. 

Having  written  so  far,  we  begin  to  wonder  whether  it 
was  wise  or  necessary  to  set  so  much  prose  between  the 
reader  and  the  poems  which,  as  we  hope,  he  wishes  to 
read.  In  an  ordinary  anthology,  the  interruption  of  a 
long  preface  is  a  mistake  and  an  intrusion,  for,  more 
than  any  other  good  art,  good  poetry  must  explain  itself. 
The  mood  in  which  a  poem  touches  us  acutely  may  be 
recorded,  but  it  cannot  be  reproduced  in  or  for  the 
reader.  He  must  find  his  own  moment.  For  the  most 
part,  these  Irish  poems  need  no  introduction.  We  need 
no  one  to  explain  to  us  the  beauty  of  the  lines  in  the 
"  Flower  of  Nut-brown  Maids  "  : 


"  I  saw  her  coming  towards  me  o'er  the  face  of  the 

mountain, 
Like  a  star  glimmering  through  the  mist "  ; 

or  to  remind  us  of  the  depth  of  Cuchulain's  sorrow  when 
over  the  dead  body  of  his  son  he  called  aloud : 

"  The  end  is  come,  indeed,  for  me  ; 
I  am  a  man  without  son,  without  wife  ; 
I  am  the  father  who  slew  his  own  child  ; 
I  am  a  broken,  rudderless  bark 
Tossed  from  wave  to  wave  in  the  tempest  wild  ; 
An  apple  blown  loose  from  the  garden-wall, 
I  am  over-ripe,  and  about  to  fall;  " 

or  to  tell  us  that  the  "  Blackthorn,"  or  "  Donall  Oge,"  or 
"  Eileen  Aroon,"  are  exquisite  in  their  pathos  and  tender- 
ness. But  there  are,  besides  these  enchanting  things, 
which  we  are  prepared  to  expect  from  Irish  verse,  also 


INTRODUCTION 

things  for  which  we  are  not  prepared  ;  unfamiliar  themes, 
treated  in  a  new  manner  ;  and  to  judge  of  these,  some 
help  from  outside  may  be  useful.  The  reader  who  does 
not  know  Ireland  or  know  Gaelic,  is  ready  to  accept 
softness,  the  almost  endless  iteration  of  expressions  con- 
veying the  sense  of  woman's  beauty  and  of  man's  affection, 
in  phrases  that  differ  but  little  from  each  other ;  what  he 
is  not  prepared  for  is  the  sudden  break  into  matter-of-fact, 
the  curt  tone  that  cuts  across  much  Irish  poetry,  revealing 
an  unexpected  side  of  life  and  character.  Even  the 
modern  Irishman  is  tripped  up  by  the  swift  intrusion  of 
the  grotesque  ;  the  cold,  cynical  note  that  exists  side 
by  side  with  the  most  fervent  religious  devotion,  especi- 
ally in  the  popular  poetry,  displeases  him.  He  resents 
it,  as  he  resents  the  tone  of  the  "  Playboy  of  the  Western 
World  "  ;  yet  it  is  the  direct  modern  representative  of 
the  tone  of  mind  that  produced  the  Ossianic  lays. 

We  find  it  in  all  the  popular  poetry  ;  as  an  example  take 
the  argument  of  the  old  woman  who  warns  a  young 
man  that  if  he  persists  in  his  evil  ways,  there  will  be  no 
place  in  heaven  for  such  as  he.  The  youth  replies  : 

"  If  no  sinner  ever  goes  to  Paradise, 
But  only  he  who  is  blessed,  there  will  be  wide  empty 

places  in  it. 

If  all  who  follow  my  way  are  condemned 
Hell  must  have  been  full  twenty  years  and  a  year  ago, 
And  they  could  not  take  me  in  for  want  of  space." 

The  same  chill,  almost  harsh  tone  is  heard  in  the 
colloquy  between  Ailill  of  Munster  and  the  woman 
whom  he  has  trysted  on  the  night  after  his  death,1  or  in 
the  poem,  "  I  shall  not  die  for  you  "  (p.  286),  or  in  the 

1  Dr.  Kuno  Meyer's  Ancient  Irish  Poetry  (Constable,  1911),  p.  9. 


xxxiv    THE   POEM-BOOK   OF  THE   GAEL 

verses  on  the  fairy-hosts,  published  by  Dr.  Kuno  Meyer, 
where,  instead  of  praise  of  their  ethereal  loveliness,  we 
are  told  : 

"  Good  are  they  at  man -slaying, 

Melodious  in  the  ale-house, 

Masterly  at  making  songs, 

Skilled  at  playing  chess."  1 

Could  anything  be  more  matter-of-fact  than  the  clever 
chess-playing  of  the  shee-folk  and  their  pride  in  it  ? 

A  collection  of  translations  must  always  have  some 
sense  of  disproportion.  It  is  natural  that  translators 
should,  as  a  rule,  have  been  attracted,  not  only  to  the 
poems  that  most  readily  give  themselves  to  an  English 
translation,  but  to  those  which  are  most  easily  accessible. 
The  love-songs,  such  as  those  collected  by  Hardiman  and 
Dr.  Douglas  Hyde,  have  been  attempted  with  more  or 
less  success  by  many  translators,  while  much  good  poetry, 
not  so  easily  brought  to  hand,  has  been  overlooked. 
Dr.  Kuno  Meyer's  fine  translations  of  a  number  of  older 
pieces,  which  came  out  originally  either  in  separate 
publications,2  or  in  the  transactions  of  the  Arts  Faculty 
of  University  College,  Liverpool,  have  now  been  rendered 
more  accessible  in  a  separate  collection  ;  but  the  English 
ear  is  wedded  to  rhyme,  and  a  prose  translation,  how- 
ever careful  and  choice,  often  misses  its  mark  with  the 
general  reader.  Long  ago,  Miss  Brooke  (in  her  Reliques 
of  Irish  Poetry)  and  Furlong  (in  Hardiman's  Irish 
Minstrelsy)  essayed  the  translation  of  a  number  of  the 
longer  "  bardic  remains  "  ;  and  these  earlier  collectors  and 
translators  will  ever  retain  the  gratitude  of  their  country- 

1  Ancient  Irish  Poetry,  p.  19. 

2  King  and  Hermit  (1901) ;    Liadan  and  Curithir  (1902) ;  /'our 
Songs  of  Summer  and  Winter  (1903) ;  all  published  by  D.  Nutt. 


INTRODUCTION  ixxv 

men  for  rescuing  and  printing,  at  a  time  when  little  value 
was  placed  upon  such  things,  these  stores  of  Irish  song. 
But  the  translations  suited  better  the  taste  of  their  own 
day  than  of  ours  ;  we  cannot  read  them  now,  nor  do  they 
in  the  slightest  way  represent  the  verse  they  are  intended 
to  reproduce.  Naturally,  too,  it  is  easier  to  give  the 
spirit  and  language  of  a  serious  poem  than  that  of  a  humor- 
ous one  in  another  tongue,  so  that  the  more  playful 
verse  has  been  neglected. 

It  may  be  thought  that  this  book  is  overweighted 
by  religious  and  love  poems ;  but  in  a  collection  essen- 
tially lyrical,  religion  and  love  must  ever  be  the  two 
chief  themes.  In  Ireland,  the  inner  spirit  of  the  national 
genius  ever  spoke,  and  still  speaks,  through  them. 

Among  the  people  of  the  quiet  places  where  few 
strangers  come,  and  where  night  passes  into  day  and 
day  again  to  night  with  little  change  of  thought  or  out- 
ward emotion,  simple  sorrows  and  simple  pleasures  have 
still  time  to  ripen  into  poetry.  The  grief  that  came 
to-day  will  not  pass  away  with  a  new  grief  to-morrow ; 
it  will  impress  its  groove,  straight  and  deep,  upon  the 
heart  that  feels  it,  lying  there  without  hope  of  a  summer 
growth  to  hide  its  furrow.  The  long  monotonous  days, 
the  dark  unbroken  evenings  are  the  nurseries  of  sorrow  ; 
the  white  open  roads  are  the  highways  of  hope  or  the 
paths  for  the  wayfaring  thoughts  of  despair.  The 
stranger  who  came  one  day  comes  again  no  more,  though 
we  watch  the  long  white  track  never  so  earnestly ;  the 
boy  or  girl  who  went  that  way  to  foreign  lands  has  not 
thrown  his  or  her  shadow  across  the  road  again.  Where 
the  turf  fire  rises  curling  and  blue  into  the  air,  where  the 
young  girl  stands  waiting  by  the  winding  "  boreen," 
where  the  old  woman  croons  over  the  hearth,  there  we 


xxxvi     THE   POEM-BOOK   OF   THE   GAEL 

shall  surely  find,  if  we  know  how  to  draw  it  forth,  that 
a  well  of  poetry  has  been  sunk,  and  that  half-uncon- 
sciously  the  thought  of  the  heart  has  expressed  itself  in 
simple  verse,  or  in  rhythmic  prose  almost  more  beautiful 
than  verse.  The  minds  that  produced  the  touching 
melodies  that  wail  and  croon  and  sing  to  us  out  of  Ireland, 
have  not  the  less  expressed  themsc-lves  in  melodious 
poetry.  Here,  if  anywhere,  we  may  look  to  find  a  style 
unspoiled  by  imitation,  and  a  sentiment  moving  because 
it  is  perfectly  sincere.  It  is  thus  that  such  poems  as 
"  Donall  Oge  "  or  the  "  Roisin  Dubh  "  or  "  My  Grief 
on  the  Sea  "  come  into  existence. 

Where  the  outward  distractions  of  life  are  few,  the 
grave  monotony  of  sea  and  moor  and  bog-land,  the 
swirl  of  cloud  and  mist,  and  the  loneliness  of  waste  places 
sink  more  deeply  into  the  mind.  The  visible  is  less  felt 
than  the  invisible,  and  life  is  surrounded  by  a  network 
of  fears  and  dreams  to  which  the  town-dweller  is  a 
stranger.  To-day,  in  the  Western  Isles  of  Ireland  and 
Scotland,  the  huntsman  going  out  to  hunt,  the  fisherman 
to  fish  or  lay  his  nets,  the  agriculturist  to  sow  or  reap 
his  harvest,  and  the  weaver  or  spinner  to  wind  his  yarn, 
go  forth  to  their  work  with  some  familiar  charm-prayer 
or  charm-hymn,  often  beautifully  called  "  the  Blessings," 
on  their  lips.  The  milkmaid  calling  her  cows  or  churning 
her  butter,  the  young  girl  fearful  of  the  evil-eye,  and  the 
cottager  sweeping  up  her  hearth  in  the  evening,  laying 
herself  down  to  sleep  at  night,  or  rising  up  in  the  morn- 
ing, soothe  their  fears  or  smooth  their  way  by  some 
whispered  paider  or  ortha,  a  prayer  or  a  verse  or  a  blessing. 
The  deep  religious  feeling  of  the  Celtic  mind,  with  its 
far-stretching  hands  groping  towards  the  mysterious  and 
the  infinite,  comes  out  in  these  spontaneous  and  simple 


INTRODUCTION  xxxvH 

ejaculations ;  I  have  therefore  endeavoured  to  bring 
together  a  few  others  to  add  to  the  groups  gathered  by 
Dr.  Hyde  in  the  west  of  Ireland  and  by  Dr.  Carmichael 
in  the  Western  Hebrides ;  but  in  their  original  Gaelic 
they  are  the  fruit  of  others'  collections,  not  of  my  own.1 
They  are  the  thoughts  of  such  humble  people  as  the  poor 
farm-servant  who  "  had  so  many  things  to  do  from  dark 
to  dark  "  that  she  had  no  time  for  long  prayers,  and  knew 
only  a  little  prayer  taught  her  by  her  mother,  which  laid 
"  our  caring  and  our  keeping  and  our  saving  on  the 
Sacred  Trinity." 

I  desire  to  inscribe  here  my  sincere  gratitude  to  the 
living  authors  and  authoresses  who  have  kindly  given 
me  permission  to  use  their  work,  and  my  gratitude  to 
those  authors  who  have  gone,  that  they  have  left  us  so 
much  good  work  to  use.  Especially  I  desire  to  thank 
my  friends,  Mr.  Alfred  Perceval  Graves  and  Mr.  Ernest 
Rhys,  for  permitting  the  use  of  unpublished  poems. 

Many  friends  have  given  a  ready  helping  hand  in 
elucidating  difficult  words  and  phrases,  and  it  is  a  pleasant 
task  to  thank  them  here.  Dr.  D.  Hyde,  Rev.  Michael 
Sheehan,  Rev.  P.  S.  Dinneen,  Mr.  Tadhg  O'Donoghue, 
Mr.  R.  Flower,  Miss  Hayes,  especially,  have  always 
readily  come  to  my  assistance ;  to  Miss  Eleanor  Knott 
I  am  indebted  for  valuable  help  in  the  translation  of 
the  "  Saltair  na  Rann,"  and  to  Dr.  R.  Thurneysen  for 
suggesting  some  readings  in  this  difficult  poem. 

I  gratefully  acknowledge  permission  accorded  to  me 
by  the  following  publishing  houses  to  include  poems  or 
extracts  from  books  published  by  them  : — 

1  Chiefly  of  Dr.  Michael  Sheehan's  collections  in  Co.  Waterford, 
and  those  made  by  Mr.  Fionan  M'Collum  and  others  in  West 
Kerry  (sec  Notes). 


xxxviii    THE  POEM-BOOK   OF  THE   GAEL 

Messrs.  Constable  &  Co.,  Ancient  Irish  Poetry,  by 
Professor  Kuno  Meyer.  T.  Fisher  Unwin,  Bards  of  the 
Gael  and  Gall,  by  Dr.  George  Sigerson,  F.N.U.I. 
Maunsel  &  Co.,  Irish  Poems,  by  Alfred  Perceval  Graves ; 
Sea-S-pray,  by  T.  W.  Rolleston ;  The  Gilly  of  Christ,  by 
Seosamh  mac  Cathmhaoil.  David  Nutt,  Heroic  Romances 
of  Ireland,  by  A.  H.  Leahy.  Herbert  &  Daniel,  Eyes  of 
Touth,  for  a  poem  by  Padraic  Colum.  Sealy,  Bryers  and 
Walker,  Lays  of  the  Western  Gael,  by  Sir  Samuel  Ferguson  ; 
Irish  Noinins,  by  P.  J.  McCall.  H.  M.  Gill  &  Son, 
Irish  Fireside  Songs  and  Pulse  of  the  Bards,  by  P.  J. 
McCall.  Williams  &  Norgate,  Silva  Gadelica,  by  Standish 
Hayes  O'Grady.  Chatto  &  Windus,  Legends,  Charms, 
and  Cures  of  Ireland,  by  Lady  Wilde. 

I  also  desire  to  acknowledge  the  courtesy  of  His 
Majesty's  Stationery  Department  in  permitting  the  use 
of  drawings  taken  from  initial  letters  in  Sir  John  T. 
Gilbert's  Facsimiles  of  Irish  National  MSB.  Others  of 
the  initial  letters  used  in  the  book  are  drawn  from  the 
Book  of  Lindisfarne  and  other  Celtic  manuscripts  in  the 
British  Museum.  I  have  to  thank  the  Librarian  of  the 
Bodleian  Library  for  permitting  the  reproduction  of 
the  photograph  of  the  initial  lines  from  the  "  Saltair  na 
Rann  "  as  a  frontispiece  to  the  book. 


THE  SALTAIR  NA  RANN,  OR  PSALTER 
OF  THE  VERSES 


THE  SALTAIR  NA  RANN,  or  Psalter  of  the  Verses,  so-called  because 
it  is  divided  into  150  poems  in  imitation  of  the  Psalms  of  David,  is 
undoubtedly  the  most  important  religious  poem  of  early  Ireland. 
It  may  justly  be  regarded  as  the  Irish  Paradise  Lost  and  Paradise 
Regained,  for  it  opens  with  an  account  of  the  Creation  of  the 
Universe,  the  founding  of  Heaven  and  Hell,  the  fall  of  Lucifer, 
the  creation  of  the  Earthly  Paradise  and  of  man,  the  temptation 
and  fall  and  the  penance  of  Adam  and  Eve.  After  this  it  sketches 
the  Old  Testament  History,  leading  up  to  the  birth  and  life  of 
Christ  and  closing  with  His  death  and  resurrection.  Though  in 
general  it  follows  the  Bible  narrative,  it  is  peculiarly  Irish  in  tone, 
and  its  additions  and  variations  are  of  the  greatest  interest  to 
students  of  mediaeval  religious  literature.  The  conception  of  the 
universe  in  the  first  poem,  with  its  ideas  of  the  seven  heavens, 
the  coloured  and  fettered  winds,  and  the  sun  passing  through  the 
opening  windows  of  the  twelve  divisions  of  the  heavens,  is  curious  ; 
the  earth,  enclosed  in  the  surrounding  firmament,  "like  a  shell 
around  an  egg,"  being  regarded  as  the  centre  of  the  universe. 

In  the  portions  which  relate  the  life  of  Adam  and  Eve,  the 
author  evidently  had  before  him  the  Latin  version  of  the  widely 
known  Vita  Adae  et  Euae,  which  he  follows  closely,  introducing 
from  it  several  Latin  words  into  his  text ;  but  even  here  the  colour- 
ing is  purely  Irish.  The  poem  is  ascribed  to  Oengus  the  Culdee, 
who  lived  early  in  the  ninth  century ;  but  its  language  is  later, 
probably  the  end  of  the  tenth  century. 

In  1883  Dr.  Whitley  Stokes  published  1  the  text  from  the  only 
existing  complete  copy,  that  contained  in  the  Bodleian  MS.  Rawl. 
B.  502,  but  no  part  of  it  has  hitherto  been  published  in  English. 
The  present  translation  of  the  sections  dealing  with  the  Creation  and 
with  the  life  of  Adam  and  Eve  is  purely  tentative ;  the  poem 
presents  great  difficulties,  and  we  suffer  from  the  lack  of  a  second 
copy  with  which  to  compare  it.2  Miss  Eleanor  Knott  has  read 
the  translations  and  has  helped  me  with  many  difficulties  ;  and  I 
had  the  advantage  of  reading  parts  of  the  poem  in  class  with 
Dr.  Kuno  Meyer.  For  the  errors  which  the  translation  must 
undoubtedly  contain,  I  am  myself,  however,  alone  responsible. 

1  In   Anecdota    Oxoniensia   (Med.    and    Mod,    Series),   vol.   i. 
part  iii. 

2  The  Lebar  Brecc  gives    poem   x.,   and  a  prose  version  of 
portions  of  poems  ii. ,  iv. ,  vi. ,  viii. ,  ix. ,  xi. 


THE  SALT  AIR  NA  RANN,  OR  PSALTER 

OF  THE  VERSES 

/ 

Attributed  to  Oengns  the  Culdee,  ninth  century  ;    but  the 
date  is  probably  the  close  of  the  tenth  century. 

I.  THE  CREATION  OF  THE  UNIVERSE 

Y  own    King,   King    of    the 

pure  heavens, 
without    pride,    without 

contention, 
who    didst    create    the 

folded1  world, 
my     King     ever  -  living, 

ever  victorious. 

King  above  the  elements, 
surpassing  the  sun, 

King  above  the  ocean 
depths, 

King  in  the  South  and 
North,  in  the  West  and 
East, 

with  whom  no  conten- 
tion can  be  made. 

King  of  the  Mysteries,  who  wast  and  art, 
before  the  elements,  before  the  ages, 
King  yet  eternal,  comely  His  aspect, 
King  without  beginning,  without  end. 
i  Whitley  Stokes  gives  "  lawful" 


4  THE   SALTAIR  NA   RANN 

King  who  created  lustrous  heaven, 
who  is  not  arrogant,  not  overweening, 
and  the  earth,  with  its  multitudinous  delights, 
strong,  powerful,  stable. 

King  who  didst  make  the  noble  brightness, 

and  the  darkness,  with  its  gloom  ; 

the  one,  the  perfect  day, 

the  other,  the  very  perfect  night. 

King  who  fashioned  the  vast  deeps 

out  of  the  primary  stuff  of  the  elements, 

who 

the  wondrous  formless  mass. 

King  who  formed  o\:t  of  it  each  element, 

who  confirmed  them  without  restriction,  a  lovely  mystery, 

both  tempestuous  and  serene, 

both  animate  and  inanimate. 

King  who  hewed,  gloriously,  with  energy, 

out  of  the  very  shapely  primal  stuff, 

the  heavy,  round  earth, 

with  foundations,  .  .  .  length  and  breadth.1 

King  who  shaped  within  no  narrow  limits 

in  the  circle  of  the  firmament 

the  globe,  fashioned 

like  a  goodly  apple,  truly  round. 

1  Corap.  the  parallel  passage  in  Senchus  m6r,  Ancient  Laws  of 
Ireland,  voL  i.  intro.  p.  26. 


THE   CREATION   OF   THE  UNIVERSE     5 

King  who  formed  after  that  with  fixity 
the  fresh  masses  about  the  earth  ; 
the  very  smooth  currents  above  the  world 
of  the  chill  watery  air.  > 

King  who  didst  sift  the  cold  excellent  water 
on  the  earth-mass  of  the  noble  cliffs 
into  rills,  with  the  reservoirs 1  of  the  streams, 
according  to  their  measures,  with  moderation. 


CREATION  OF  THE  WINDS  WITH  THEIR  COLOURS 

King  who  ordained  the  eight  winds 
advancing  without  uncertainty,  full  of  beauty, 
the  four  prime  winds  He  holds  back, 
the  four  fierce  under-winds. 

There  are  four  other  under-winds, 

as  learned  authors  say, 

this  should  be  the  number,  without  any  error, 

of  the  winds,  twelve  winds. 

King  who  fashioned  the  colours  of  the  winds, 
who  fixed  them  in  safe  courses, 
after  their  manner,  in  well-ordered  disposition, 
with  the  varieties  of  each  manifold  hue. 

The  white,  the  clear  purple, 

the  blue,  the  very  strong  green, 

the  yellow,  the  red,  sure  the  knowledge, 

in  their  gentle  meetings  wrath  did  not  seize  them. 

1  This  is  Dr.  Whitley  Stokes'  reading.    Dr.  R.  Tburneysen  reads 
"sextarii." 


6  THE   SALTAIR   NA   RANN 

The  black,  the  grey,  the  speckled, 
the  dark  and  the  deep  brown, 
the  dun,  darksome  hues, 
they  are  not  light,  easily  controlled. 

King  who  ordained  them  over  every  void, 

the  eight  wild  under-winds ; 

who  laid  down  without  defect 

the  bounds  of  the  four  prime  winds. 

From  the  East,  the  smiling  purple, 

from  the  South,  the  pure  white,  wondrous, 

from  the  North,  the  black  blustering  moaning  wind, 

from  the  West,  the  babbling  dun  breeze. 

The  red,  and  the  yellow  along  with  it, 
both  white  and  purple  ; 
the  green,  the  blue,  it  is  brave, 
both  dun  and  the  pure  white. 

The  grey,  the  dark  brown,  hateful  their  harshness, 

both  dun  and  deep  black  ; 

the  dark,  the  speckled  easterly  wind 

both  black  and  purple. 

Rightly  ordered  their  form, 

their  disposition  was  ordained  ; 

with  wise  adjustments,1  openly, 

according  to  their  position  and  their  fixed  places. 

1  It  is  not  clear  what  the  word  glh,gUssib,  which  occurs  fre- 
uently  in  the  following  passage,  means.  In  mod.  Irish,  gUas,  in 
ne  meaning,  is  a  means  or  instrument  for  doing  a  thing.  The  verb 


THE   CREATION   OF   THE   UNIVERSE       7 

The  twelve  winds, 

Easterly  and  Westerly,  Northerly  and  Southerly, 
the  King  who  adjusted  them,  He  holds  them  back, 
He  fettered  them  with  seven  curbs. 

King  who  bestowed  them  according  to  their  posts, 
around  the  world  with  many  adjustments, 
each  two  winds  of  them  about  a  separate  curb, 
and  one  curb  for  the  whole  of  them. 

King  who  arranged  them  in  habitual  harmony, 
according    to    their    ways,    without    over-passing    their 

limits ; 

at  one  time,  peaceful  was  the  space, 
at  another  time,  tempestuous. 


MEASUREMENTS  OF  THE  UNIVERSE 

King  who  didst  make  clear  the  measure  of  the  slope  l 

from  the  earth  to  the  firmament, 

estimating  it,  clear  the  amount, 

along  with  the  thickness  of  the  earth-mass. 

He  set  the  course  of  the  seven  Stars  2 
from  the  firmament  to  the  earth, 
Saturn,  Jupiter,  Mercury,  Mars, 
Sol,  Venus,  the  very  great  moon. 

gUasaim  =  "  to  harness."     It  seems  to  have  some  such  meaning 
here.     The  winds  were  apparently  harnessed,  curbed,  or  fettered 
two  and  two,  the  whole  being  held  together  in  one  fetter.     In 
another  sense gUas  means  "  harmony." 
i  Or  "  track."  2  i.e.  the  Planets. 


8  THE    SALTAIR   NA   RANN 

King  who  numbered,  kingly  the  space, 
from  the  earth  to  the  moon  ; 
twenty-six  miles  with  a  hundred  miles, 
they  measure  them  in  full  amount. 

This  is  that  cold  air 
circulating  in  its  aerial  series  (?) 
which  is  called  .  .  .  with  certainty 
the  pleasant,  delightful  heaven. 

The  distance  from  the  moon  to  the  sun 

King  who  measured  clearly,  with  absolute  certainty, 

two  hundred  miles,  great  the  sway, 

with  twelve  and  forty  miles. 

This  is  that  upper  ethereal  region, 
without  breeze,  without  greatly  moving  air,1 
which  is  called,  without  incoherence, 
the  heaven  of  the  wondrous  ether. 

Three  times  as  much,  the  difference  is  not  clear  (?) 

between  the  firmament  and  the  sun, 

He  has  given  to  calculators ;  2 

my  King  star-mighty  !   most  true  is  this  ! 

This  is  the  perfect  Olympus, 

motionless,  immovable, 

(according  to  the  opinion  of  the  ancient  sages) 

which  is  called  the  Third  Holy  Heaven. 

1  Or  "impure  air",? 

*  Cf.  the  parallel  passage  in   the   Senchus    mdr   astronomical 
tract,   Anc.  Laws  of  Ireland,  vol.  i. ,  Introduction,  p.  28. 


THE   CREATION   OF   THE  UNIVERSE       9 

Twelve  miles,  bright  boundary, 
with  ten  times  five  hundred  miles, 
splendid  the  star-run  course,  separately 
from  the  firmament  to  the  earth. 

The  measure  of  the  space 
from  the  earth  to  the  firmament, 
it  is  the  measure  of  the  difference 
from  the  firmament  to  heaven. 

Twenty-four  miles 
with  thirty  hundred  miles 
is  the  distance  to  heaven, 
besides  the  firmament. 

The  measure  of  the  whole  space 
from  the  earth  to  the  Kingly  abode, 
is  equal  to  that  from  the  rigid  earth 
down  to  the  depths  of  hell. 

King  of  each  Sovereign  lord,  vehement,  ardent, 
who  of  His  own  force  set  going  the  firmament 
as  it  seemed  secure  to  Him  over  every  space, 
He  shaped  them  from  the  formless  mass. 

The  poem  goes  on  to  speak  of  the  division  of  the 
universe  into  five  zones,  a  torrid,  two  temperate,  and 
two  frigid  zones,  and  of  the  earth  revolving  in  the  centre 
of  the  universe,  with  the  firmament  about  it,  "  like  a  shell 
encircling  an  egg."  The  passage  of  the  sun  through  the 
constellations  is  then  described,  each  of  the  twelve 
divisions  through  which  it  passes  being  provided  with 
six  windows,  with  close-fitting  shutters,  and  strong 


io  THE   SALTAIR   NA  RANN 

coverings,  which  open  to  shed  light  by  day.  The  con- 
stellations are  then  named,  and  the  first  section  of  the 
poem  ends  as  follows : — 

For  each  day  five  items  of  knowledge 
are  required  of  every  intelligent  person, 
from  every  one,  without  appearance  of  censure,1 
who  is  in  ecclesiastical  orders. 

The  day  of  the  solar  month,  the  age  of  the  moon, 
the  sea-tide,  without  error, 

the  day  of  the  week,  the  festivals  of  the  perfect  saints, 
after  just  clearness,  with  their  variations. 

1  Perhaps  "  boasting.' 


II.   THE   HEAVENLY    KINGDOM 

KING  who  formed  the  pure  Heaven,  1.  337 

with  its  boundaries,  according  to  His  pleasure, 
a  habitation  choice,  songful,  safe, 
for  the  wondrous  host  of  Archangels. 

Heaven  with  its  multitude  of  hosts, 
noble,  durable,  exceeding  spacious, 
a  strong  mighty  city  with  a  hundred  graces, 
a  tenth  of  it  the  measure  of  the  world. 


Therein  are  three  ramparts  undecaying, 

fixedly  they  surround  heaven, 

a  rampart  of  emerald  crystal, 

a  rampart  of  gold,  a  rampart  of  amethyst.1 

A  wall  of  emerald,  without  obscurity,  outside, 
a  wall  of  gold  next  to  the  city, 
between  the  two,  with  bright  fair  glory, 
a  mighty  rampart  of  stainless  purple. 

1  Lit.  "  green,"  "  gold,"  and  "  purple,"  but  they  seem  to  imply 
special  stones. 


12  THE   SALTAIR   NA  RANN 

There,  with  a  strong-flowing  sea  (?) 

is  a  spacious,  perfect  city, 

in  it,  with  the  light  of  peace,1 

is  the  eternal  way  of  the  four  chief  doors. 

The  measure  of  each  door  severally 
of  the  four  chief  doorways, 
(placed)  side  by  side,  by  calculation, 
is  a  mile  across  each  single  door. 

In  each  doorway  a  cross  of  gold 
before  the  eyes  of  the  ever-shining  host ; 
the  King  wrought  them  without  effort, 
they  are  massive,  very  lofty. 

Overhead,  on  each  cross,  a  bird  of  red  gold, 

full-voiced,  not  unsteady ; 

in  every  cross 

a  great  gem  of  precious  stone. 

Every  day  an  archangel 
with  his  host  from  Heaven's  king, 
with  harmony,  with  pure  melody, 
(gather)  around  each  several  cross. 

Before  each  doorway  is  a  lawn, 
fair  .  .  .,  of  sure  estimation, 
I  liken  each  one  of  them  in  extent z 
to  the  earth  together  with  its  seas. 

1  Or  peaceful  light. 

1  This  is  the  L.   B.  reading;    the  text  gives  "excellence"  or 
"  fertility,"  which  does  not  make  good  sense. 


THE   HEAVENLY   KINGDOM  13 

The  circuit  of  each  single  lawn 

with  its  silvern  soil,1 

with  its  swards,  covered  with  goodly  blossom, 

with  its  beauteous  plants. 

Vast  though  you  may  deem 

the  extent  of  the  spacious  lawns, 

a  rampart  of  silver,  undecaying, 

has  been  formed  about  each  several  lawn. 

The  portals  of  the  walls  without 
around  the  fortress  on  every  side, 
with  its  dwellings  soundly  placed, 
affording  abodes  (?)  for  many  thousands. 

Eight  portals  in  a  series 
so  that  they  come  together  around  the  city, 
I  have  not,  in  the  way  of  knowledge,2 
a  simile  for  the  extent  of  each  portico. 

Each  portal  abounding  in  plants, 

with  their  bronze  foundations, 

a  rampart  of  fair  clay  has  been  established 

strongly  about  each  portal. 

Twelve  ramparts — perfect  the  boundary  (?) 

of  the  portals,  of  the  lawns, 

without  counting  the  three  ramparts  that  are  outside 

around  the  chief  city. 

1  The  L.  B.  reading  is  fond  d 'argut  futhib ,  which  seems  to  point 
to  some  such  meaning  as  "  base,"  "  foundation." 
8  Reading  uncertaia 


14  THE   SALTAIR  NA  RANN 

There  are  forty  gateways  in  the  heavenly  habitation 
with  its  kingly  thrones  ; 
three  to  each  tranquil  lawn, 
and  three  to  each  portal. 

Gratings  (or  doors)  of  silver,  fair  in  aspect,  1.  409 

to  each  gateway  of  that  lawn, 

gracious  bronze  doors 

to  the  gateways  of  the  portals. 

The  corresponding  walls  from  the  fortress  outwards 

of  all  the  portals 

are  comparable  in  height  l 

(to  the  distance)  from  the  earth  to  the  moon. 

The  ramparts  of  the  lawns,  as  is  meet, 

wrought  of  white  bronze, 

their  height — mighty  in  brilliance — 

is  as  that  from  the  earth  to  the  pure  sun. 

The  measure  of  comparison  of  the  three  ramparts 

which  surround  the  chief  city, 

their  height  shows  (a  distance  equal 

to  that)  from  the  earth  to  the  firmament. 

The  entrance  bridges 2  of  the  perfect  gates,  1.  465 

a  fair  way,  shining  with  red  gold, 

they  are  irradiated — pure  the  gathering — 

each  step  ascending  above  the  other. 

1  This  is  the  L.   B.   reading;  our  text  seems  to  mean  "in 
renown." 

2  Or  "thresholds." 


THE   HEAVENLY   KINGDOM  15 

From  step  to  step — brave  the  progress, 
pleasant  the  ascent  into  the  high  city ; 
fair  is  that  host,  on  the  patK  of  attainment  (?) 
many  thousands,  a  hundred  of  hundreds. 

In  the  circuit  of  the  ramparts — great  its  strength  (?) — 
in  the  interior  of  the  chief  city, 
bright  glossy  galleries, 
firm  red-gold  bridges. 

Therein  are  flowering  lands 

ever  fresh  in  all  seasons, 

with  the  produce  of  each  well-loved  fruit 

with  their  thousand  fragrances. 

The  nine  grades  of  heaven,  1-  553 

around  the  King  of  all  causation, 
without  loss  of  glory,  with  vigour  of  strength, 
without  pride,  without  envy. 

In  abundant  profusion  (?)  under  the  lawful  King 
this  their  exact  number, 
seventy-two  excellent  hosts 
in  each  grade  of  the  grades. 

The  number  of  each  host,  unmeasured  gladness, 
there  is  none  that  could  know  it, 
except  the  King  should  know  it 
who  created  them  out  of  nothing. 

A  majestic  King  over  them  all, 

King  of  flowery  heaven, 

a  goodly,  righteous,  steadfast  King, 

King  of  royal  generosity  in  His  regal  dwelling. 


1 6  THE   SALTAIR   NA  RANK 

King  very  youthful,  King  aged  long  ago,1 

King  who  fashioned  the  heavens  about  the  pure  sun, 

King  of  all  the  gracious  saints, 

a  King  gentle,  comely,  shapely. 

The  King  who  created  the  pure  heavenly  house 
for  the  angels  without  transgression, 
land  of  holy  ones,  of  the  sons  of  life,2 
a  plain  fair,  long,  spacious. 

He  arranged  a  noble,  peaceful  3  abode, 
stable,  under  the  regal  courses, 
a  comely,  clear,  perfect,  bright  circuit, 
for  the  wondrous  folk  of  penitence. 

My  King  from  the  beginning  over  the  host, 

"  sanctus  Dominus  Sabaoth," 

to  whom  is   chanted  upon   the  heights,   with   loving 

guidance,  (?) 
the  melody  of  the  four-and-twenty  white-robed  saints. 

The  King  who  ordained  the  perfect  choir 
of  the  four-and-twenty  holy  ones, 
sweetly  they  chant  the  chant  to  the  host 
"  sanctus  Deus  Sabaoth." 


i  Perhaps  Ancient  of  Days. 

*  Mac  betkad  may  mean  "  a  sinless  man,"  as  mac  bdis,  "  son  of 
death,"  means  a  sinful  man. 

*  We  take  M  to  be  an  adjective ;  it  might  also  mean  ' '  a  fairy 
mound,"  but  this  is  hardly  applicable  here. 


THE  HEAVENLY   KINGDOM  17 

King  steadfast,  bountiful,  goodly,  noble, 
abode  of  peace,  ...(?) 
with  whom  is  the  flock  of  lambs 
around  the  Pure  Spotless  Lamb. 

Bright  King,  who  appointed  the  Lamb 

to  move  forward  upon  the  Mount  (of  Sion)  l 

four  thousand  youths  following  Him, 

(with)  a  hundred  and  forty  (thousand)  in  a  pure  progress, 

A  perfect  choir,  with  glories  of  form, 
of  the  stainless  virgins, 
chants  pure  music  along  with  them 
following  after  the  shining  Lamb. 

Equal  in  beauty,  in  swiftness,  in  brightness, 

across  the  Mount  surrounding  the  Lamb  ; 

the  name  inscribed  on  their  countenances,  with  grace, 

is  the  name  of  the  Father. 

The  King  who  ordained  the  voice 
of  the  heavenly  ones  by  inspiration, 
full,  strong-swelling, 
as  the  mighty  wave  of  many  waters ; 

Or  like  the  voice  of  sound-loving  harps 

they  sing,  without  fault,  full  tenderly, 

(like)  multitudinous  great  floods  over  every  land, 

or  like  the  mighty  sound  of  thunder.2 

i  Rev.  xiv.  i. 

*  "  I  heard  a  voice  from  heaven,  as  the  voice  of  many  waters, 
and  as  the  voice  of  a  great  thunder ;  and  I  heard  the  voice  of 
harpers  harping  with  their  harps  "  (Rev.  xiv.  a). 

B 


1 8  THE   SALTAIR   NA   RANN 

King  of  the  flowering  tree  of  life, 

a  way  for  the  ranks  of  the  noble  grades ; 

its  top,  its  droppings,  on  every  side, 

have  spread  across  the  broad  plain  of  heaven. 

On  which  sits  the  splendid  bird-flock 
sustaining  a  perfect  melody  of  pure  grace, 
without  decay,  with  gracious  increase 
of  fruit  or  of  foliage. 

Beauteous    the    bird-flock   which    sustains   it,   (i.e.    the 

melody) 

each  choice  bird  with  a  hundred  wings  ; 
they  chant  without  guile,  in  bright  joyousness, 
a  hundred  melodies  for  every  wing. 

King  who  created  many  splendid  dwellings,1 

many  comely,  just,  perfect  works, 

through  (the  care  of)  my  rich  King,2  over  every  sphere, 

no  lack  is  felt  by  any  of  the  vast  array. 

His  are  the  seven  heavens,  perfect  in  might, 
without  prohibition,  without  evil,  whitely  moving 
around  the  earth,  great  the  wonder  (?) 
with  the  names  of  each  heaven. 

Air,  ether,  over  all 

Olympus,  the  firmament, 

heaven  of  water,  heaven  of  the  perfect  angels, 

the  heaven  where  is  the  fair-splendid  Lord. 

i  "  In  ray  Father's  house  are  many  mansions  "  (John  xiv.  3). 
*  Rogmar  (mod.  Ir.  roghmhar)  means  "  bulky"  or  "  fortunate" 
or  ' '  fat "  ;  here  it  refers  to  God  as  possessor  of  all. 


THE   HEAVENLY   KINGDOM  19 

The  amount  of  good  which  our  dear  God,  1.  649 

has  for  His  saints  in  their  holy  dwelling, 

according  to  the  skill  of  the  wise  (?) 

there  is  none  who  can  relate  a  hundredth  part  of  it. 

The  Lord,  the  head  of  each  pure  grade, 

who  gathered  (?)  the  host  to  everlasting  life, 

may   He  save  me  after  my  going  out  of  the  body  of 

battles, 
the  King  who  formed  Heaven. 

King  who  formed  the  pure  Heaven. 


III.  THE   FORBIDDEN   FRUIT,     (vii.) 

RINCE  who  gave  a  clear  admonition 
to  Eve  and  to  Adam,  1.  1081 

that  they  should  eat  of  the  produce  of 

Paradise 
according  to  God's  command  : 

"  Eat  ye  of  them  freely, 

of   the  fruits  of   Paradise — sweet  the 

fragrance — 
many,  all  of  them  (a  festival  to  be 

shared)  * 
are  lawful  for  you  save  one  tree. 

"  In  order  that  you  may  know  that  you  are  under 

authority, 

without  sorrow,  without  strife, 
without  anxiety,  without  long  labour, 
without  age,  evil,  or  blemish  ; 

"  Without  decay,  without  heavy  sickness  ; 
with  everlasting  life,  in  everlasting  triumph 
on  your  going  to  heaven  (joyous  the  festival) 
at  the  choice  age  of  thirty  years." 

l  Lit.  "  share  of  a  festival"  ;  this  is  one  of  those  chevilles  which 
are  frequent  in  this  poem,  often  introduced  without  much  sense  to 
fill  out  a  line,  or  to  give  a  rhyming  word.  We  have  omitted  a 
few  of  them  in  the  translation. 

20 


THE   FORBIDDEN   FRUIT  21 

A  thousand  years 

and  six  hours  of  the  hours, 

without  guile,  without  danger,  it  has  been  heard, 

Adam  was  in  Paradise.1 

O  God  our  help,  whom  champions  prove, 
who  fashioned  all  with  perfect  justice, 
not  bright  the  matter  of  our  theme  (?)  2 
the  King  who  spake  an  admonition  with  them. 

Prince  who  gave  a  clear  admonition. 

(The  figures  in  brackets  after  the  title  of  the  chapters 
are  the  numbers  of  the  poems  or  cantos  in  the  text.) 

1  There  seems  to  be  some  error  here.  According  to  Gen.  v.  3, 
Adam  lived  altogether  nine  hundred  and  thirty  years,  as  the  poet 
states  further  on  (p.  43). 

*  The  meaning  of  this  line  is  not  clear.  The  above  is  con- 
jectural. 


IV.   THE   FALL   AND   EXPULSION   FROM 
PARADISE,    (viii.) 

THE  Devil  was  jealous  thereat  1.  1105 

with  Adam  and  his  children, 

their  being  here,  without  evil, 

in  their  perfect  bodies  (on  their  passage)  to  heaven. 

All  the  living  creatures  in  the  flesh 
my  Holy  King  has  created  them, 
outside  Paradise  without  strife 
Adam  it  is  who  used  to  order  them. 

At  the  time  when  out  of  every  quarter 

the  hosts  of  the  seven  heavens  used  to  gather  round  my 

High  King, 

every  fair  corporeal  creature 
used  to  come  together  to  Adam. 

Each  of  them  out  of  his  place  cheerfully,1 

at  his  call  to  adore  him  ; 

to  Adam,  joyous  the  custom, 

they  used  to  come  to  delight  him. 

1  Lit.  "  prosperously." 


FALL  AND  EXPULSION  FROM  PARADISE      23 

From  heaven  God  ruled 

all  the  living  things  <• 

that  they  should  come  out  of  every  district  without 

fierceness l 
till  they  arrived  before  (the  gate  of)  Paradise. 

Then  they  would  return  right-hand-wise 
without  seed  of  pride  or  any  murmuring, 
each  of  them  to  its  very  pure  abode 
after  taking  leave  of  Adam. 

The  very  fierce,  double-headed  beast, 

was  subtle  and  watchful,  with  (his)  twenty  hosts, 

how  under  heaven  he  shall  find  a  way 

to  bring  about  the  destruction  of  Adam. 

Lucifer,  many  his  clear  questions,2 
went  amongst  the  animals, 
amongst  the  herds  outside  Paradise 
until  he  found  the  serpent. 

**  Is  it  not  useless  (i.e.  unworthy  of  you)   thy  being 

outside  ?  " 

said  the  Devil  to  the  serpent ; 
"  with  thy  dexterous  cunning, 
with  thy  cleverness,  with  thy  subtlety  ? 

"  Great  was  the  danger  and  the  wickedness 
that  Adam  should  have  been  ordained  over  thee  ; 
the  downfall  3  of  him,  the  youngest  of  created  things, 
and  his  destruction,  would  be  no  crime  to  us. 

1  Lit.  "without  attack." 

2  This  seems  to  be  a  cheville  ;  lit.  "  number  of  clear  questions." 

3  Lit.  "  his  consuming." 


24  THE   SALTAIR   NA  RANN 

"  Since  thou  art  more  renowned  in  warfare, 

first  of  the  twain  thou  wast  created, 

thou  art  more  cunning,  more  agreeable  in  every  way  (?) 

do  not  submit  to  the  younger  ! 

"  Take  my  advice  without  shrinking,1 
let  us  make  an  alliance  and  friendship  ; 
listen  to  my  clear  reasoning : 
do  not  go  forth  to  Adam. 

"  Give  me  a  place  in  thy  body, 
with  my  own  laws,  with  my  own  intellect, 
so  that  we  both  may  go  from  the  plain 
unexpectedly  2  to  Eve. 

"  Let  us  together  urge  upon  her 
the  fruit  of  the  forbidden  tree, 
that  she  afterwards  may  clearly 
press  the  food  upon  Adam. 

"  Provided  that  they  go  together 
beyond  the  commandment  of  his  Lord, 
God  will  not  love  them  here, 
they  will  leave  Paradise  in  evil  plight."  3 

"  What  reward  is  there  for  me  above  every  great  one  ?  * 

said  the  serpent  to  the  devil ; 

"  on  my  welcoming  thee  into  my  fair  body, 

without  evil,  as  my  fellow-inhabitant  ? 

i  Lit.  "  without  grief"  or  "  sorrow."        *  Lit.  "  under  attack.' 
*  Lit.  "  without  bloom  "  ? 


FALL  AND  EXPULSION  FROM  PARADISE      25 

"  For  guiding  thee  on  that  road 

to  destroy  Eve  and  Adam,  ' 

for  going  with,  thee  truly  to  the  attack 

whatever  act  thou  mayest  undertake  ?  "  * 

(LUCIFER  replies) 

"  What  greater  reward  shall  I  give  to  thee 
according  to  the  measure  of  our  great  crime 
(than  that)  our  union  in  our  habits,  in  our  wrath, 
shall  be  for  ever  spoken  of  ?  " 

When  he  found  a  place  for  the  betrayal 
in  the  liheness  of  the  serpent's  shape, 
slowly  he  went  tarrying  2 
directly  to  the  gate  of  Paradise. 

The  serpent  called  outside, 

"  dost  thou  hear  me,  O  wife  of  Adam  ? 

come  and  converse  with  me,  O  Eve  of  the  fair  form, 

beyond  8  every  other." 

"  I  have  no  time  to  talk  with  anyone," 
said  Eve  to  the  serpent ; 
"  I  am  going  out  to  feed 
the  senseless  animals." 

"  If  you  are  the  Eve  whose  fame  was  heard 
with  honour  in  Paradise, 
wife  of  Adam,  beautiful,  wide-minded, 
in  her  I  desire  4  my  full  satisfaction."  6 

1  Lit.  "  rise  to."  *  Or  "  steadily." 

*  Or  perhaps  "  apart  from  "  every  other. 

*  Or  "I  beseech."  «  Or  "need." 


26  THE   SALTAIR   NA  RANN 


(EvE  speaks) 

"  Whenever  Adam  is  not  here, 

I  am  guardian  of  Paradise, 

without  weariness,  O  smooth,  pale  creature, 

I  attend  to  the  needs  of  the  animals." 


(The  SERPENT  speaks) 

"  How  long  does  Adam  go  from  thee, 
on  which  side  does  he  make  his  fair  circuit, 
when  at  any  time  he  is  not  here 
feeding  the  herds  in  Paradise  f  " 

"  He  leaves  it  to  me,  bright  jewel ; 

I  feed  the  animals, 

while  he  goes  with  pure  unmeasured  renown 

to  adore  the  Lord." 


"  I  desire  to  ask  a  thing  of  thee," 

said  the  slender,  very  affable  serpent, 

"  because  bright  and  dear  is  thy  clear  reasoning, 

0  Eve,  O  bride  of  Adam  !  " 

"  Whatever  it  be  that  you  contemplate  saying, 
it  will  not  vex  me,  O  noble  creature ; 
certainly  there  will  be  no  obscurity  here, 

1  will  narrate  it  to  thee  truthfully." 


FALL  AND  EXPULSION  FROM  PARADISE      27 

"  Tell  me,  O  glorious  Eve, 

since  it  chances  that  we  are  discoursing  together, 
in  your  judgment,  is  the  life  in  Paradise, 
with  your  lordship  here,  pleasant  ?  " 

(EvE  replies) 

"  Until  we  go  faultless  in  our  turn,  (or  "  ranks  ") 

in  our  bodies  to  heaven, 

we  do  not  ask  here  greater  lordship 

than  what  there  is  of  good  in  Paradise. 

"  Every  good  thing,1  as  it  was  heard, 
that  God  created  in  Paradise, 
save  one  tree,  all  without  reserve, 
is  thus  under  our  control.2 

"  It  is  He,  the  dear  God,  who  committed  to  us, 
O  pale,  bashful  creature, 
Paradise  as  a  solace  3  for  His  people  (?) 
except  the  fruit  of  the  one  tree. 

*' '  Let  alone  the  very  pure  tree,' 

He  cautioned  myself  and  Adam, 

'  the  fruit  of  the  rough  tree,  if  thou  eatest  of  it 

against  my  command,  thou  shalt  die.'  " 

1  This  is  the  L.  B.  reading;  the  text  has  fia.  Is  it  fiadh,  of 
which  one  meaning  is  "  meat,"  or  "  food  "  ? 

*  Or  "  it  is  thus  according  to  rule,"  i.e.  laid  down  for  us. 

3  Donad seems  to  be  used  in  the  same  way  as  dldnad,  "solace " 
or  "consolation,"  v.n.  of  didonaim,  "  I  console." 


28  THE  SALTAIR   NA   RANN 


(The  SERPENT  speaks) 

"  Though  on  the  plain  l  you  be  equal, 
yourself  and  Adam,  O  Eve, 
you  are  not  more  intelligent,  O  gentle,  pure  one, 
than  any  of  the  beasts. 

"  However  great  be  the  host  under  you  outside 
it  is  lamentable  that  you  are  without  minds, 
like  to  any  of  the  ignorant  animals  ; 
thus  you  are  under  one  law  (with  them).2 

"  Except  as  regards  possessions  only, 
your  lordship  has  not  been  complete  ; 
since  nothing  of  evil  has  been  sent  to  you, 
the  worse  is  your  understanding. 

"  Great  is  the  lack  of  wisdom ; 

God  is  deceiving  you  : 

because  it  is  of  the  one  tree  of  good  and  evil, 

that  you  are  not  permitted  to  eat. 

"  For  this  purpose  the  brave  tree  was  invented, 
in  order  that  it  should  not  be  allowed  you  j 
that  you  should  not  have  the  intelligence 
to  distinguish  between  good  and  evil. 

"  Do  not  hesitate,  go  to  the  tree, 

to  test  it  as  regards  one  apple  ; 

the  discernment  between  good  and  evil 

will  be  as  the  High  Prince  instructed  you." 

i  i.e.  outside  in  the  fields  among  the  animals. 
»  i.e.  on  the  same  level  with  the  beasts. 


FALL  AND  EXPULSION  FROM  PARADISE      29 

(EvE  tpeaks) 

"  How  good  soever  thy  intelligence, 
however  favourable  l  and  gracious  thy  counsel, 
to  go  to  the  tree  I  dare  not, 
lest  we  die. 

"  Go  thou  thyself  to  the  tree,  O  serpent, 

and  bring  from  it  one  apple ; 

but  if  that  apple  come  to  me 

I  shall  share  it  between  myself  and  Adam. 

"  Before  all  the  multitudes  we  shall  be  endowed  with 

knowledge, 

if  we  but  eat  the  apple, 
(this  is)  thy  tale  without  mockery  ; 
perchance  what  thou  sayest  is  true." 

(The  SERPENT  speaks) 

"  O  Eve,  untrammelled  light, 
open  before  me  the  gate  of  Paradise  ; 
provided  I  arrive  without  misfortune  yonder 
I  will  bring  from  the  tree  the  apple." 

(EvE  speaks) 

"  Though  I  open  before  thee  that  thou  mayest  go  yonder, 
though  from  the  tree  you  bring  me  an  apple, 
there  will  be  no  delay  on  thee  here, 
(by)  thy  lingering  in  Paradise  f  " 

1  Or  "full  of  grace." 


30  THE   SALTAIR  NA  RANN 

(SATAN  speaks) 

"  If  I  bring  the  apple  to  thee, 
that  thou  mayest  discern  good  and  evil 
without  any  fail  I  will  go  out, 
unless  bondage  or  fetters  befall  me." 

Eve  opened  secretly 

the  door  before  the  serpent, 

without  difficulty  *•  it  went  (it  was  not  obsequious), 

on  its  course  to  the  one  tree. 

Eve  took  the  perfect  apple 
from  the  apple-tree  (most  woeful  the  tale), 
Eve  carried  off  the  half,  it  was  not  well, 
she  left  the  other  half  for  Adam. 


King  who  drave  from  Thee  the  host  of  hell, 

who  hast  made  them  fast  in  equal  wretchedness  under 

trembling  service, 

He  (God)  wounded  in  battle,  though  it  was  laborious, 
the  keen  wolf  who  was  jealous. 

The  Devil  was  jealous  thereat. 

1  Cith  means  a  "shower"  (metaph.  "of  tears");  also  "hard- 
ship." 


V.  THE  PENANCE  OF  ADAM  AND  EVE.    (xi.) 

KING  who  bestowed  the  pleasurable  earth  1.  1469 

upon  Adam  after  the  fall, 

he  had  no  (reason  for)  displeasure  towards  God, 

save  that  he  should  perish  after  a  time.1 

Adam  was  a  week  yet 
after  his  expulsion  out  of  Paradise, 
weary,  without  fire,  without  dwelling, 
without  drink  or  food  or  clothing. 

Because  they  were  impoverished 
they  went  into  the  midst  of  the  field, 
great  was  the  mutual  reproach  perpetually 
between  Eve  and  Adam. 

"  O  Eve  of  the  just  fair  form, 
sorrowful  are  we  through  thy  impenitence  ;  (?) 
through  thy  misdeeds,  through  thy  transgression, 
alas  !  we  have  been  cast  out  of  Paradise. 

"  Much  did  we  relinquish  of  good 
when  we  vexed  our  High  Prince  ; 
Paradise  was  ours  under  perfect  command  2 
with  every  reverence. 

1  i.e.  instead  of  passing  in  his  body  direct  to  heaven,  without 
dying,  his  days  henceforth  were  numbered. 

2  Lit.  "summons." 

3' 


32  THE    SALTAIR   NA   RANN 

"  Youth  1  and  joy,  by  us  it  has  been  heard, 
health,  playfulness,  delight, 
bordered  2  lands,  most  perfect  of  form, 
wondrous  plants,  harmonies. 


"  Noble  satisfaction,  singular  wholesome  peace, 
a  festival  of  holiness  for  souls, 
.  .  .  3  many  the  habitations, 
frequent  intercourse  with  angels. 


"  Lasting  life,  continually  at  God's  right  hand, 

for  ever  in  the  brughs  of  Paradise, 

in  which,  under  fair  aspect, 

God's  creatures  were  doing  us  reverence. 


"  All  the  living  things  under  heaven 
which  my  faithful  dear  God  created, 
under  (our)  control  over  every  high  place, 
we  it  was  who  used  to  order  them. 


"  Fire  would  not  burn  us, 

water  would  not  drown  us, 

nor  sharp  edge  .  .  .  4 

nor  (was  there)  pestilence  nor  consuming  disease. 


i  The  word  is  detiu,  probably  <fitiu  =  "  youth" ;  L.  B.  has  ditte 
aille  ocus  slanti  cen  galar,  "  beautiful  places  and  health  without 
sickness. ' ' 

*  Balthai  (?).  There  is  a  word  baltadh,  "  a  border  "  (O'R) ;  L.  B. 
has  blathi,  "  blooming  "  or  "  prosperous." 

»  Aithbi  derritr  *  Ptdim  f 


THE   PENANCE   OF  ADAM  AND   EVE     33 

"  There  was  not  among  the  elements  of  dear  God, 
one  that  would  come,  in  heaVen  or  earth, 
against  our  will,  to  destroy  us, 
save  only  the  wicked  Lucifer. 

"  Even  Lucifer 

could  not  harm  us, 

while  we  were  under  law  (in  a)  perfect  course 

according  to  mandate,  according  to  command. 

"  Because  we  wronged  dear  God 
who  gave  us  everything, 
on  every  height,  all  creatures  together, 
are  (now)  in  opposition  to  us. 

"  It  is  not  God  who  has  been  evil  towards  us, 
O  Eve,  ruddy,  gentle  fair  one  ; 
it  is  we  who  have  wronged  the  Prince, 
though  He  provided  us  with  lasting  good." 

Eve  spake,  for  she  was  in  distress,1 
in  sorrow,  after  the  fall ; 
"  O  Adam,  marvellous  over  every  wild, 
why  do  you  not  kill  me  for  my  sins  ? 

"  It  is  I  who  transgressed  the  law, 

it  is  I  who  committed  the  transgression, 

it  would  then  be  right  that  thou  should'st  slay  me, 

O  my  Lord,  O  Adam  ! 

1  Or  possibly  "  famished." 


34  THE   SALTAIR   NA  RANN 

"  Provided  that  I  fall  (just  the  measure) 
for  my  sins,  for  my  transgression, 
clearly  the  greater  mercy 
will  thy  God  shew  towards  thee." 

"  Greatly  have  we  offended  the  King," 
said  he,  said  Adam,  without  contempt, 
"  O  Wife,  I  will  not  commit  murder  on  thee, 
though  I  be  famished,  though  I  be  naked. 

"  I  will  not  lif  t  my  hand 

upon  my  own  blood,  my  own  flesh ; 

how  great  soever  thy  crime, 

it  is  from  my  body  thou  art. 

"  It  is  not  fitting  for  us  in  any  way 

to  outrage  Him  again  ; 

so  that  the  true  Prince,  O  wife, 

may  not  cut  us  off  and  utterly  destroy  us. 

"  That  we  go  not  from  Him  a  distant  journey 
with  demons  into  the  abyss  of  torment, 
nor  that  God  give  us  back 
into  the  power  of  Lucifer." 

"  There  is  no  good  in  our  life,1  O  Adam," 
said  she,  said  Eve ; 

"  without  clothing,  without  warm  dwelling, 
without  food,  we  shall  perish  of  hunger. 

"  We  had  food,  we  had  garments, 
as  long  as  we  were  without  sin ; 
since  our  fall  and  our  going  astray, 
we  have  neither  clothing  nor  good  food. 

1  Lit.  "  gatherings"  or  "  proceedings." 


THE  PENANCE  OF  ADAM  AND   EVE     35 

"  O  Husband,  make  a  circuit  without  fail 

by  a  pleasant  path  on  every 'hand, 

to  learn  if  thou  canst  get  as  a  feast  (?) 

of  food  for  us  something  that  we  would  eat." 

Adam  went  on  a  well-marked  course 

near  by,  and  far  away  ; 

he  did  not  find,  after  all, 

any  wholesome  food  but  herbs  of  the  ground. 

Herbs  of  the  soil,  green  their  colour, 
food  of  the  senseless  animals  ; 
they  are  not  tender  for  us  as  a  meal, 
after  the  pleasant  food  of  Paradise. 

(ADAM  speaks) 

"  O  Eve,  let  us  with  sincerity 
make  lasting  penance  and  repentance, 
that  we  might  cleanse  away  before  the  King  of  Justice 
something  of  our  sins,  of  our  transgressions." 

(EvE  replies) 

"  Give  me  instruction  about  that, 
O  my  Lord,  O  Adam, 

because  I  know  not  before  the  great  world  l 
how  one  should^do  penance. 

"  Instruct  me  clearly, 

according  to  thy  understanding,  according  to  thy  clear 

sense, 

that  I  do  not  exceed, 
neither  that  I  fall  short  in  any  way." 

1  Lit.  "  before  every  quarter  "  (i.e.  of  the  world). 


36  THE  SALTAIR  NA  RANN 

(AoAM  speaks) 

"  Let  us  adore  the  Lord  together 
in  silence,  without  intercourse  ; 

thou  into  the  strong  river  Tigris, 
and  I  will  go  into  the  River  Jordan. 

"  Thirty- three  days 
thou  should'st  be  in  the  River  Tigris, 
myself  in  Jordan  under  correction 
forty-seven  clear  days. 

"  Take  with  thee  a  firm  flag  of  stone, 

(place  it)  under  thy  sitting,  under  thy  gentle  feet, 

and  I  shall  take  with  me  another  stone 

equal  to  it,  resembling  it  exactly. 

"  Dispose  the  stone  in  the  river, 

bathe  thyself  on  it ; 

thou  wilt  be  chosen  as  thou  hast  strength  to  endure 

until  the  water  rises  to  thy  throat. 

"  Thy  locks  spread  luxuriantly  on  every  hand, 
upon  the  stream  on  every  side  ; 
be  thou  silent  with  grief  and  special  sadness, 
thy  keen  eyes  towards  the  heavenly  ones. 

"  Lift  thy  two  hands  every  canonical  hour  * 
towards  the  heavenly  Lord  of  the  nine  grades ; 
pray  .  .  .  ,  even  at  the  beginning, 
forgiveness  for  thy  transgression, 

1  Like  the  mention  of  "cross-vigil"  later  on,  the  mention  of 
anonical  hours  is  a  quaint  anachronism  in  the  history  of  Adam 
and  Eve. 


THE  PENANCE  OF   ADAM   AND   EVE     37 

"  We  are  not  pure  to  converse  with  God, 
since  (our)  transgression,  since  (our)  impurity, 
for  our  false,  polluted  mouths 
are  not  clean,  stainless,  bright. 

"  Let  us  beseech  the  whole  of  the  creatures 
formed  by  God  through  His  pure  mysteries, 
that  they  implore  with  us  to  the  King  of  Justice 
that  our  transgression  be  forgiven. 

"  Perform  in  this  manner  thy  good  work, 

and  beseech  the  true  Prince  ; 

until  He  determine  clearly 

do  not  stir  thyself,  do  not  move." 

Forty  and  seven  days  without  woe 
was  Adam  in  the  River  Jordan  ; 
thirty  and  three  days  was  gentle  Eve 
in  the  stream  of  the  River  Tigris. 

Angels  of  God  each  day  from  heaven 
from  God  to  succour  Adam, 
instructing  him,  as  was  permitted, 
to  the  end  of  nineteen  days. 

Then  Adam  sought  a  mighty  boon 

upon  the  River  Jordan  ; 

that  it  would  "  fast  "  with  him  upon  dear  God, 

with  its  multitude  of  creatures. 

The  stream  stood  still 
in  its  course,  in  its  onward  motion ; 
the  kingly  stream  paused  from  its  flow 
that  He  might  give  forgiveness  to  Adam. 


38  THE   SALTAIR  NA  RANN 

Then  the  stream  gathered  together 
every  living  creature  that  was  in  its  womb, 
until  the  whole  number  of  the  living  creatures 
were  around  Adam. 

All  of  them  prayed, 

Adam,  the  stream,  and  the  multitude  of  animals ; 
mournfully  they  poured  forth  their  noble  lamentation 
to  the  perfect  host  of  the  nine  holy  grades. 

That  all  the  grades,  openly, 
might  beseech  their  Lord  on  their  behalf 
that  God  should  give  full  forgiveness, 
and  should  not  destroy  Adam.1 

The  nine  grades  with  their  array 
prayed  to  God  who  controls  them 
for  forgiveness  now  for  Adam 
for  his  peril,  for  his  sin. 

God  gave  to  His  grades 

full  pardon  for  the  sin  of  Adam, 

and  the  habitation  of  the  earth  at  all  times 

with  heaven,  holily  noble,  all-pure. 

And  He  pardoned  after  that 
their  descendants  and  their  peoples, 
save  him  alone  who  acts  unrighteously 
and  transgresses  the  will  of  God  unlawfully. 

1  Or    possibly    "  without    stint  to  Adam "  ;    but   the   reading 
above  seems  better  to  bear  out  the  meaning. 


THE  PENANCE  OF  ADAM   AND   EVE    39 

When  the  black  Devil  heard 

that  forgiveness  had  been  bestowed  on  Adam, 

(he  said)  "  I  will  go  in  a  distinguished  brilliant  form 

tc'Eve  again. 

"  That  I  may  bring  her  out  of  the  stream  through 

weakness, 

that  I  may  put  her  on  a  course  of  death  ; 
so  that  I  may  drown  (i.e.  destroy)  something  of  her  work 
and  disturb  her  devotion." 

Lucifer  went  with  joyful  speed, 

the  fierce,  astute  wolf, 

like  a  swan,  in  the  shape  of  a  white  angel, 

to  Eve  in  the  River  Tigris. 

The  angel  who  destroyed  them  spake  with  her, 
in  pity  for  her,  as  it  seemed  to  her, 
"  O  modest  Eve  of  the  bright  form, 
long  hast  thou  tarried  in  the  River  Tigris. 

"  Ah  Woman,  though  bright  was  thy  beauty, 
thou  hast  grown  pale  l  in  the  rough  stream  ; 
without  vigour  ...  ,  it  is  evident 
thou  hast  slain  thyself,  thou  hast  destroyed  thyself. 

"  O  Woman,  come  out  for  the  sake  of  thy  God, 

remain  no  longer  in  the  cruel  river ; 

thy  valiant  King  sent  me  journeying, 

from  Him  have  I  come  to  show  pity  to  thee." 

1  Lit.    "thou   hast   changed    thy  complexion  in    the   rough 


4o  THE   SALTAIR  NA  RANN 

Then  comes  Eve  out  of  the  river, 
and  was  on  the  shore,  drying  herself ; 
a  cloud  (i.e.  a  faintness)  fell  on  her  then, 
so  that  she  was  almost  dead  without  life. 


Bright  Eve  did  not  recognise 
Lucifer  with  his  manifold  snares  : 
the  matchless  woman  was  perplexed,1 
her  mind  was  in  doubt. 


(LUCIFER  speaks) 

"  O  Eve,  what  has  come  to  thee  ? 
greatly  art  thou  considering ; 
clearly  I  came  to  thee  from  heaven, 
at  the  command  of  the  steadfast  God. 


"  Let  us  go  hence  to  Adam. 
O  Woman  !   do  not  be  wavering  ; 
we  have  all  prayed  to  dear  God 
to  pardon  you  for  your  sins." 


Then  they  went  vigorously 
as  far  as  the  River  Jordan, 
to  Adam,  chief  of  tribes  ; 
noble  Eve  and  Lucifer. 

l  Lit.  "it  was  difficult  to  the  matchless  woman.' 


THE   PENANCE  OF   ADAM   AND   EVE     41 

When  Adam  perceived  from  the  river 

Eve  and  Lucifer, 

trembling  took  hold  upon  him,  (though)  he  was 

courageous, 
horror  of  the  Devil's  countenance  filled  him. 


"  My  grief  !  O  wandering  Eve, 

thy  guide  is  betraying  thee  ; 

the  man  who  comes  journeying  with  thee  here, 

it  is  he  who  deceived  thee  in  Paradise. 


"  Ah,  sad  Eve,  without  dear  form,1 
what  brought  thee  from  the  River  Tigris 
without  the  warrant  of  the  King  of  Justice, 
without  a  pure  accompanying  angel  ?  " 


When  Eve  heard  that, 

the  reproaches  of  Adam, 

she  fell  to  the  ground, 

she  came  near  to  speedy  death. 

(A  long  conversation  follows  between  Adam  and  the 
Devil ;  Adam  demands  why  the  Devil  pursues  them  with 
such  perpetual  hatred  and,  in  reply,  Lucifer  recounts 
his  fall  from  heaven,  which  he  says  was  caused  by  his 
refusal  to  obey  the  command  of  God  that  he  should 
worship  Adam.  This  command  he  refused,  because  he, 

1  i.e.  "  whose  form  has  been  changed  by  her  sojourn  in  the 
river." 


42  THE   SALTAIR   NA  RANN 

as  the  first-created,  felt  it  unworthy  of  him  to  adore 
Adam,  the  youngest-born  of  created  things.  He  details 
his  present  miseries,  and  his  determination  to  take 
revenge  on  Adam  and  Eve.  The  poem  or  canto  ends 
with  the  coming  of  Adam  out  of  the  river,  and  the 
history  of  their  children,  Seth,  Cain,  and  Abel.) 


VI.   THE   DEATH   OF   ADAM,    (xii.) 

DAM'S  lifetime  was  not  short ;      1.  2021 
that  ye    may  know,  without   risk   (of 
error), 

thirty  years  had  he,  it  was  exactly 

proven, 
with  nine  hundred  years.1 

Then  came  a  complete  sickness  to 

Adam, 

such  as  comes  to  everyone, 
his  wife  Eve  with  every  goodness 
was  receiving  his  last  bequests. 

Adam  knew  his  destiny, 

he  spake  to  splendid  Eve  : 

"  I  have  parted  fromthee  andfrom  thychildren; 

of  this  sickness  I  die." 


"  It  is  hard  of  God," 

said  she,  said  Eve,  to  Adam, 

"  that  thou  art  not  sojourning  here,  (?) 

that  it  is  not  I  who  go  first. 


1  i.e.  930  years  ;  see  Gen.  v.  3. 
43 


44  THE   SALTAIR   NA  RANN 

"  My  grief  !   that  them  should'st  change," 

said  she,  said  Eve  to  Adam  ; 

"  that  I  should  be  here  sorrowful  without  strength, 

that  thou  should'st  go  first." 

"  O  Eve  of  the  pure  clear  form, 
understand  clearly  in  thy  mind ; 
thou  wilt  not  be  any  length,  it  is  clear, 
here  in  pain  after  my  departure. 

"  Short  was  the  time,  though  it  be  without  deception, 
between  thy  creation  and  mine, 

thou  wilt  not  be  in  danger  of  attack,1  bright  is  the  outlook, 
but  nine  months  after  me." 

"  Tell  me  without  error,  O  Husband, 
what  I  shall  do  with  thy  fair  dear  body  ? 
since  thou  deemest  thy  death  is  certain, 

0  my  Lord,  O  Adam  !  " 

"  Let  not  foot  or  hand  touch  me, 
let  not  any  interfere  with  me, 
till  one  is  sent  from  God  from  heaven 
to  arrange  my  fair  dear  body. 

"  Leave  my  body  (fair  the  fashion), 
in  its  bonds  without  disturbance  ; 

1  am  certain  that  the  noble  Artificer  who  formed  me 
will  provide  for  the  needs  of  my  body. 

1  Fogrls  means  "  under  attack  "  or  "  under  warmth,"  "  ardour," 
"heat";  could  it  mean  "under  the  warmth  of  the  sun,"  i.e. 
"alive"? 


THE   DEATH  OF  ADAM  45 

"  Arise,  O  Eve,  cheerfully, 

and  begin  a  '  cross-vigil ' ;  * 

send  thou  from  thee,  O  Wife,  to  God's  right  hand 

my  pure  soul  to  holy  heaven. 

"  The  soul  that  God  created  in  me, 
it  is  He  who  recalled  it  in  its  uncleanliness ; 
let  it  go  to  him  perfectly  to  His  dwelling 
with  the  accompanying  of  angel-hosts. 

"  O  Wife,  I  am  not  bold,  in  truth, 
concerning  the  actions  of  my  good  King  ; 
the  wrath  that  He  showed  (pure  His  sway), 
was  an  act  of  affection  and  mercy." 

(Eve  kneels  and  prays  to  God.  A  heavenly  messenger 
is  sent  to  her,  to  tell  her  that  the  soul  of  Adam  is  parted 
from  the  body,  and  that  it  is  safe  in  the  charge  of  the 
hosts  of  the  archangel  Michael.) 

Then  Eve  went  1.  2105 

quickly  towards  Adam  ; 

until  she  found  Adam  (great  the  love) — 

no  longer  inhaling  breath. 

When  she  heard  not 

the  voice  of  Adam  speaking  to  her  with  fair  beauty, 
her  senses  out  of  measure  overpowered  her, 
with  long  lamentations,  with  lasting  sorrow. 

1  A  cross-vigil  was  a  prayer  uttered  with  the  arms  extended  in 
the  form  of  a  cross,  or  sometimes  with  the  body  flat  on  the  ground 
in  the  same  position ;  such  prayers  were  common  in  the  ancient 
Irish  Church. 


46  THE   SALTAIR  NA  RANN 

(The  heavenly  messenger  speaks) 

"  O  Eve,  lift  up  thine  eyes, 

and  suffer  us  to  instruct  thee ; 

set  thy  keen  pure  glance 

upwards  clearly  to  the  heavenly  ones. 

"  O  Woman,  raise  thy  pure  face, 
to  behold  the  soul  of  Adam, 
as  it  is  uplifted  brightly 
between  hosts  of  archangels." 

On  that  Eve  turned 

to  behold  the  soul  of  Adam, 

and  she  saw  the  beautiful  peaceful  soul 

of  Adam  in  the  company  of  Michael. 

While  Eve  was  thus 

recognising  the  soul  of  Adam, 

she  beheld  coming  towards  it  along  the  ways 

hosts  of  angels  chorus-singing. 

Eve  beheld  a  Seraph 

moving  nobly  in  front  of  the  host 

on  three  golden  wings  ; 

fair  was  the  beloved  thing l  which  he  bore. 

Then  Eve  beheld 

three  white  shining  birds 

(which)  across  the  sky  from  holy  heaven 

had  arrived  (?)  in  their  lustre. 

1  "Pet,"  or  "champion. 


THE   DEATH  OF  ADAM  47 

While  she  was  watching  the  birds, 
Eve  herself  without  great  trouble, 
as  with  a  flash  of  the  full  sun, 
she  became  unable  to  look  at  them. 

Up  unto  cloudy  heaven  was  heard 
the  choir  of  the  holy  angels  around  Michael ; 
they  spread  their  pleasant  ranks  then 
circling  about  the  altar  of  Adam. 

The  angels  sustained  a  fitting  harmony 
round  about  the  altar ; 
before  all  the  host  they  burned  a  herb 
which  is  caDed  "  ornamentum." 

The  strong  smoke  l  spread 
directly  through  the  air  ; 
the  doors  of  the  firmament  opened 
without  any  force  (?)  * 

God  came  in  holiness  from  heaven 
to  the  service  of  Adam's  soul ; 
the  Soverain  King  over  every  sphere 
sat  down  on  His  royal  throne. 

There  went  before  the  pure  King 
a  noble  angel  of  the  angels  ; 
he  sounded  melodiously  a  clear,  shrill  note, 
its  beautiful  report  was  heard   throughout    the    sevsn 
heavens.3 

»  Or  "  incense. '  •  t  Without  guardians  or  keepers  ? 

•  See  p.  18.      God  is  frequently  called  the  "  King  of  the  Seven 
Heavens,"  cf.  p.  120. 


48  THE   SALTAIR   NA  RANN 

Towards  the  sound  of  the  trumpet,  purely  splendid, 
went  the  host  of  the  nine  holy  grades ; 
truly  strong  were  their  clear  numbers, 
before  the  royal  throne  of  the  Creator  ! 

(The  hosts  unite  in  praising  the  Lord  for  His 
mercy  to  Adam) 

Then  the  King  of  Wisdom x  1.  2177 

sent  from  Him  quickly  a  Seraph 

across  the  slopes  of  the  great  mass  of  the  hosts 

with  wings  of  red  gold. 

Until  they  took  the  soul  of  Adam  without  pain, 
so  that  it  was  bathed 

in  the  unpassable  (?)  river  of  the  ever-living  host 2 
"  indatinum  ciriasu." 

So  that  he  brought  with  him  Adam's  pure,  clear  soul 

thus  out  of  the  stream, 

then  he  placed  himself  as  at  the  first 

before  the  presence  of  the  Creator. 

Then  the  King  laid  His  hand, 

without  any  consuming  (?)  upon  the  soul  of  Adam. 

He  commended  it  to  Michael, 

fair  is  the  tale  ! 

"  Be  thou  not  harsh,  O  Michael, 
towards  its  great  bliss, 
place  thou  the  soul  of  Adam  here 
in  Paradise. 

i  Or  "  King  of  Victories." 

*  In  the  Vision  of  Adamnan  the  river  is  of  fire.     In  Dante's 
Pvrgatorio  (Canto  xxxi.)  the  soul  is  bathed  in  the  river  of  Lethe. 


THE   DEATH  OF  ADAM  49 

"  Bear  the  bright  pure  soul 

of  splendid  Adam  with  his  accompanying  bands, 

place  it 

in  the  third  kingly  division  of  Paradise." 


"  « In  the  third  heaven,'  said  God, 
'  which  is  called  Ficconicia  ; 
let  it  be  there  without  sign  of  pain 
till  the  time  of  the  Resurrection.' " 

All  the  grades  in  every  sphere 
both  of  angels  and  archangels, 
sweet  was  their  pure  chorus 
praising  the  Creator ; 

For  the  remission  to  the  soul  of  Adam 
from  its  sins,  from  its  vices  ; 
that  it  should  be  brought 
again  to  Paradise. 

Let  the  oil  of  mercy 

and  the  herb  "  ornamentum  "  be  bestowed 

about  the  body  of  Adam 

to  cleanse  it  from  its  vileness. 

Around  the  body  of  Adam 

let  three  wholesome  linen  cloths,  of  special  honour,  be 

arranged ; 

and  let  it  be  buried  exactly 
at  the  side  of  Abel's  sepulchre. 


50  THE   SALTAIR   NA  RANN 

The  body  of  our  fore-father  Adam, 

according  to  writings  of  manifold  genius, 

from  afar,  under  the  heavy,  sorrowful  bonds  of  death, 

was  buried  in  Hebron. 

It  was  there  under  a  strong,  firm  tower 1 
till  the  coming  of  the  wave-strength  of  the  flood, 
the  body  of  Adam,  with  honours  in  its  sepulchre, 
under  assemblies  of  the  strong. 

The  flood  of  the  deluge  over  every  land, 
many  countries  did  it  upturn, 
it  carried  his  head  from  Adam 
and  brought  it  to  Jerusalem. 

There  the  head  remained 

before  Jerusalem ; 2 

without  grief  the  cross  of  Christ  afterwards 

was  planted  in  the  flesh  8  of  Adam. 


High  King  of  the  Sun,  clearly  hath  it  been  heard,    1.  2385 

He  it  was  who  created  Paradise  ; 

He  who  is  better  than  all  kings,  royal  His  form, 

there  is  no  limit  to  His  existence. 

1  TromtAur,  in  1.  906  of  the  poem,  seems  to  refer  to  waves. 
1  Lit.  "before  the  gate  of  Jerusalem."  but  see  Rev.  Celt.,  vi. 
p.  104. 
8  i.e.  in  his  skull ;  this  is  a  curious  tradition. 


ANCIENT  PAGAN   POEMS 


"One  day  the  young  poet  Nede  fared  forth  till  he  stood  on  the 
margin  of  the  sea,  for  the  poets  believed  the  brink  of  water  to  be 
the  place  of  poetic  revelation.  He  heard  a  sound  in  the  wave, 
even  a  chant  of  wailing  and  sadness,  and  he  marvelled  thereat. 

"  So  the  youth  cast  a  spell  upon  the  wave,  that  it  might  reveal 
to  him  the  cause  of  its  moaning."— Book  of  Leinster,  i86a. 


THE  SOURCE  OF  POETIC  INSPIRATION 

A  Colloquy  between  the  Old  Poet  and  the  Young  Poet, 
lime  :   The  beginning  of  the  Christian  era. 


HE   old   poet  spake   to 

the  young  poet : — 
"  Who  is  this  sage  around 
whom  is  wrapped  the  robe  of  splendour  ? 
and  whence  comes  he  ?  " 
The  young  poet  answered  : 

"  I  spring  from  the  heel  of  a  wise  man, 
From  the  meeting-place  of  wisdom  I  come 
forth ; 

From  the  place  where  goodness 

dwells  serene. 
From  the  red  sunrise  of  the  dawn 

I  come, 
Where  grow  the  nine  hazels  of 

poetic  art. 
From  the  wide  circuits  of  splendour 
Out  of  which,  according  to  their  judgment,  truth  is 

weighed. 

There  is  a  land  where  righteousness  is  instilled, 
And  where  falsehood  wanes  into  twilight. 

S3 


54  ANCIENT  PAGAN  POEMS 

There  is  a  land  of  varied  colours 1 
Where  poems  are  bathed  anew. 

And  thou,  O  well-spring  of  Knowledge,  whence  comes t 
thou  ?  » 

"  Well  can  the  answer  be  given  : 

I  move  along  the  columns  of  age, 
Along  the  streams  of  inspiration, 
Along  the  elf-mound  of  Nechtan's  wife, 
Along  the  forearm  of  the  wife  of  Nuada,2 


Along  the  fair  land  of  knowledge 
The  bright  country  of  the  sun  ; 


Along  the  hidden  land  which  by  day  the   moon 

inhabits ; 

Along  the  first  beginnings  of  life. 

I  demand  of  thee,  O  wise  youth,  what  it  is  that  lies  before 
thee  ?  " 

"  That  I  can  answer  thee. 

I  travel  towards  the  plain  of  age, 

Through  the  mountain-heights  of  youth. 

I  go  forward  to  the  hunting-grounds  of  old  age, 

Into  the  sunny  dwelling  of  a  king  (death  ?), 

Into  the  abode  of  the  tomb  ; 

Between  burial  and  judgment, 

Between  battles  and  their  horrors 


Among  Tethra's  mighty  men.3 
I  thou,  O  master  of  Wi 


And  thou,  O  master  of  Wisdom,  what  lies  before  thee  ?  " 

1  The  colours  denote  the  qualities  of  the  inhabitants. 

*  Two  poetic  names  for  the  River  Boyne ;  Nuada  was  the 
deified  ancestor  of  the  Kings  of  Leinster.  In  the  Boyne  dwelt  the 
"salmon  of  knowledge,"  which  the  poet  must  consume,  and  at  its 
source  grew  the  hazels  of  poetic  inspiration.  Its  tumuli  were  be- 
lieved to  be  the  haunts  of  gods  or  fairies. 

3  Tethra  was  god  of  the  assemblies  of  the  dead. 


THE   SOURCE   OF   POETIC   INSPIRATION    55 

"  I  pass  into  the  lofty  heights  of  honour, 

Into  the  community  of  knowledge, 

Into  the  fair  country  inhabited  of  noble  sages, 

Into  the  haven  of  prosperities, 

Into  the  assembly  of  the  king's  son. 

Into  contempt  of  upstarts, 

Into  the  slopes  of  death  where  great  honour 

lies. 
O  Son  of  Instructions,  whose  son  art  thou  I  " 


"  I  am  the  son  of  Poetry, 
Poetry  son  of  investigation, 
Investigation  son  of  meditation, 
Meditation  son  of  lore, 
Lore  son  of  research, 
Research  son  of  enquiry, 
Enquiry  son  of  wide  knowledge, 
Knowledge  son  of  good  sense, 
Good  sense  son  of  understanding, 
Understanding  son  of  wisdom, 
Wisdom  son  of  the  three  gods  of  Poetry. 
O  Fount  of  Wisdom,  of  whom  art  thou  the  son  ? 


"  I  am  the  son  of  the  man  who  has  lived,  but  has 

never  been  born ; 
Of  him  who  was  buried  in  the  womb  of  his  own 

mother ; 1 
Of  him  who  was  baptized  after  his  death.2 

1  Explained  in  the  gloss  to  mean  "  the  Earth." 

2  i.e.  "  in  the  Passion  of  Christ." 


56  ANCIENT  PAGAN   POEMS 

He  of  all  living,  was  first  betrothed  to  death, 
His  is  the  first  name  uttered  by  the  living, 
His  the  name  lamented  by  all  the  dead  : 
Adam,  the  High  One,  is  his  name."  1 

1  The  above  translation  is  founded  on  Dr.    Whitley  Stokes 
edition  of  the  Colloquy  (see  note,  p.  349). 


AMORGEN'S  SONG 

AMORGEN  sang : 

am  the  wind  on  the  sea  (for  depth)  ; 

am  a  wave  of  the  deep  (for  weight)  ; 

am  the  sound  of  the  sea  (for  horror)  ; 

am  a  stag  of  seven  points  (?  for  strength) ; 

am  a  hawk  on  a  cliff  (for  deftness)  ; 

am  a  tear  of  the  sun  (for  clearness) ; 

am  the  fairest  of  herbs ; 

am  a  boar  for  valour ; 

am  a  salmon  in  a  pool  (i.e.  the  pools  of  knowledge)  ; 

am  a  lake  on  a  plain  (for  extent) ; 

am  a  hill  of  Poetry  (and  knowledge)  ; 

am  a  battle- waging  spear  with  trophies  (for  spoiling  or 

hewing) ; 
I  am  a  god,  who  fashions  smoke  from  magic  fire  for  a 

head  (to  slay  therewith)  ; 
(Who,  but  I,  will  make  clear  every  question  ?) 
Who,  but  myself,  knows  the  assemblies  of  the  stone-house1 

on  the  mountain  of  Slieve  Mis  ? 

Who  (but  the  Poet)  knows  in  what  place  the  sun  goes 
down  ? 

i  Or  dolmen?  Professor  John  MacNeill,  on  whose  readings 
the  above  is  founded,  notes  that  a  dolmen  near  Slieve  Mis  in  Co. 
Antrim  is  called  Ticloy  (toigh  cloiche),  and  in  the  local  Scotch 
dialect  "  the  stane-hoose." 

57 


58  ANCIENT  PAGAN   POEMS 

Who  seven  times  sought  the  fairy-mounds  without  fear  ? 

Who  declares  them,  the  ages  of  the  moon  ? 

Who  brings  his  kine  from  Tethra's  house  ?  * 

Who  segregated  Tethra's  kine  ? 

(For  whom  will  the  fish  of  the  laughing  sea  be  making 

welcome,  but  for  me  ?) 
Who  shapeth  weapons  from  hill  to  hill  (wave  to  wave, 

letter  to  letter,  point  to  point)  ? 

Invoke,  O  people  of  the  waves,2  invoke  the  satirist,  that 

he  may  make  an  incantation  for  thee  ! 
I,  the  druid,  who  set  out  letters  in  Ogham  ; 
I,  who  part  combatants  ; 
I,  who  approach  the  fairy-mounds  to  seek  a  cunning 

satirist,  that  he  may  compose  chants  with  me. 
I  am  the  wind  on  the  sea. 

1  See  note,  p.  349. 

2  i.e.  the  fish,  here  also  called  "Tethra's  kine"  ;  this  poem  is 
generally  followed  by  an  incantation  for  good  fishing,  to  which 
these  phrases  doubtless  refer. 


THE   SONG   OF  CHILDBIRTH 

NESS,  let  all  men  stand, 

The  hour  of  thy  peril  is 

at  hand ; 

Pale  daughter  of  old  Eo- 
chad  Buidhe  the  mild 
We  rise  to  greet  thy  child! 
Wife  of  the  ruddy  palms 
Let  not  thy  mind  be  filled 
with  terror's  qualms ; 
The  head  of  hosts,  the  one 
Whom  thousands  shall  ex- 
tol, shall  be  thy  son. 

In  the  same  timely  hour  upon  this  earth 

He  and  the  King  of  the  World  have  their  birth  j 

Through  the  long  ages'  gloom 

Now  and  to  the  day  of  doom 

Praises  shall  echo  through  the  realm  of  life. 

Heroes,  at  sight  of  him,  cease  their  strife  ; 

Hostages  they  twain  shall  never  be 

The  Christ  and  he. 

On  the  plain  of  Inisfail  he  shall  come  forth, 
On  the  flag-stone  of  the  meadow  to  the  North. 


60  ANCIENT  PAGAN   POEMS 

Hostages  every  battle-chief  to  him  will  send, 

Through  the  great  world  his  glory  will  extend  ; 

The  king  of  grace  is  he, 

The  Hound  of  Ulster  he  ; 

But  and  if  he  falls, 

Darkness  and  woe  descend  on  Erin's  halls. 

Conchobhar,  son  of  Ness  "  ungentle,"  is  his  name  ; 

Raids  and  red  routs  his  valour  will  proclaim. 

There  he  will  find  his  death 

Where  the  expiring  breath 

Of  the  suffering  God  his  vengeful  sword  demands, 

In  the  dark  hour  upon  the  Holy  Lands ; l 

Shining  his  red  sword's  track, 

Over  the  sloping  plain  of  Liana's  back. 

1  King  Conchobhar  was  believed  to  be  born  in  the  same  year  as 
Jesus  Christ,  and  to  have  met  his  death  in  endeavouring  to  avenge 
the  death  of  Christ. 


GREETING  TO  THE  NEW-BORN  BABE 

WELCOME,  little  stranger, 
Born  in  pain  and  danger, 
He  will  be  our  gracious  Lord, 
Son  of  gentle  Cathva. 

Son  of  gentle  Cathva, 
From  the  fort  of  Brag  na  Brat ; 
Son  of  valorous  Ness  the  Young, 
My  son,  and  my  grandson. 

My  son,  and  my  grandson, 
Of  the  world  the  shining  One, 
He  of  old  Rath  Line  the  king, 
Poet-prince,  my  offspring. 

Poet-prince,  my  offspring, 
Overseas  thy  hosts  thou  wilt  fling ; 
Little  songster  from  the  Brag, 
Little  kid,  we  welcome  you. 


WHAT   IS    LOVE? 

From  the  "  Wooing  of  Etain." 

LOVE  much-enduring  through  a  year  is 

my  love, 
It  is  grief  close-hidden,1 

It   is   stretching   of  strength  be- 
yond its  bounds, 
It  is  (fills  ?)  the  four  quarters  of  the 

world ; 

It  is  the  highest  height  of  heaven  ; 
It  is  breaking  of  the  neck, 
It  is  battle  with  a  spectre, 
It  is  drowning  with  water, 
It  is  a  race  against  heaven, 
It  is  champion-feats  beneath  the  sea, 
It  is  wooing  the  echo ; 

So  is  my  love,  and  my  passion,  and  my  de- 
votion to  her  to  whom  I  gave  them. 

i  Lit.  "  beneath  the  skin." 


SUMMONS  TO  CUCHULAIN 

From  the  "  Sickbed  of  Cuchulain." 

ARISE,  O  Champion  of  Ulster  ! 
In  joyous  health  mayest  thou  awake  ; 
Look  thou  on  Macha's  King,  beloved, 
Thy  heavy  slumber  likes  him  not. 

Behold  his  shoulder  full  of  brightness, 
Behold  his  horns  for  battle-array,1 
Behold  his  chariots  sweeping  the  glens, 
Behold  the  movement  of  his  chess- warriors.2 

Behold  his  champions  in  their  might, 
Behold  his  maiden-troop,  tall  and  gentle, 
Behold  his  kings — a  storm  of  war — 
Behold  his  honourable  queens. 

Look  forth  !   the  winter  has  begun  ! 
Note  thou  each  wonder  in  its  turn, 
Behold,  for  it  avails  thee  well, 
Its  cold,  its  length,  its  want  of  colour  ! 

i  Or  "his  drinking-horns  filled  with  ale"  according  to  another 
reading. 
1  Lit.  "  chess-Fians." 

63 


64  ANCIENT  PAGAN   POEMS 

This  heavy  slumber  is  decay,  it  is  not  good  ; 
Exhaustion  from  unequal  strife  ; 

Repose  too  lengthened  is  "  a  drop  when  one  is  filled,"  1 
Weakness  like  this  is  next  to  death.2 

Awake  from  sleep,  the  peace  which  drinkers  seek, 
With  mighty  ardour  throw  it  off  ; 
Many  smooth  speeches  woo  thee  here, 
Arise,  O  Champion  of  Ulster  ! 

1  This  seems  to  be  a  proverb  or  saw. 

2  Tanaisi  tfifc,  lit.   "second  to  death."    The  "tanist"  stood 
next  to  the  chief,  and  was  his  successor. 


LAEGH'S  DESCRIPTION   OF 
FAIRY-LAND 

From  the  "Sickbed  of  Cuchulain." 

I  CAME  with  joyous  sprightly  steps, 
— Wondrous  the  place,  though  its  fame  was  known, — 
Till  I  reached  the  cairn  where,  'mid  scores  of  bands, 
I  found  Labra  of  the  flowing  hair. 

I  found  him  seated  at  the  cairn, 
Ringed  round  by  thousands  of  weaponed  men, 
Yellow  the  hair  on  him,  beauteous  its  hue, 
A  ball  of  ruddy  gold  enclosing  it. 

After  a  time  he  recognised  me, 

In  the  purple,  five-folded  mantle, 

He  spake  to  me,  "  Wilt  thou  come  with  me 

To  the  house  wherein  is  Failbe  Fand  ?  " 

Two  kings  are  in  the  house, 

Failbe  Fand  and  Labra, 

Three  fifties  surround  each  one  of  them, 

That  the  full  sum  of  the  one  house. 

65  K 


66  ANCIENT  PAGAN   POEMS 

Fifty  beds  on  the  right  side, 
With  fifty  nobles  (?)  in  them, 
Fifty  beds  on  the  left  side, 
With  fifty  in  them  also. 

Copper  are  the  borders  of  the  beds, 
White  the  pillars  overlaid  with  gold  ; 
This  the  candle  in  their  midst, 
A  lustrous  precious  stone. 

At  the  door  westward 

In  the  place  where  sets  the  sun, 

Stand  a  herd  of  grey  palfreys,  dappled  their  manes, 

And  another  herd  purple-brown. 

There  stand  at  the  Eastern  door 
Three  ancient  trees  of  purple  pure, 
From  them  the  sweet,  everlasting  birds 
Call  to  the  lads  of  the  kingly  rath. 

At  the  door  of  the  liss  there  is  a  tree, 

Out  of  which  there  sounds  sweet  harmony, 

A  tree  of  silver  with  the  shining  of  the  sun  upon  it, 

Its  lustrous  splendour  like  to  gold. 

Three  twenties  of  trees  are  there, 
Their  crests  swing  together  but  do  not  clash, 
From  each  of  those  trees  three  hundred  are  fed 
With  fruits  many- tasted,  that  have  cast  their  rind. 

There  is  a  well  in  the  noble  (?)  sidh  ; 
There  are  thrice  fifty  mantles  of  various  hue, 
And  a  clasp  of  gold,  all  lustrous, 
Holds  the  corner l  of  each  coloured  cloak. 
i  Lit  "  ear.' 


LAEGH'S    DESCRIPTION   OF   FAIRY-LAND     67 

A  vat  there  is  of  heady  mead 
Being  dispensed  to  the  household  ; 
Still  it  lasts,  in  unchanged  wise, 
Full  to  the  brim,  everlastingly. 

There  is  a  maiden  in  the  noble  (?)  house 
Surpassing  the  women  of  Eire, 
She  steps  forward,  with  yellow  hair, 
Beautiful,  many-gifted  she. 

Her  discourse  with  each  in  turn 
Is  beauteous,  is  marvellous. 
The  heart  of  each  one  breaks 
With  longing  and  love  for  her. 

The  noble  maiden  said  : 

"  Who  is  that  youth  whom  we  do  not  know  ? 

If  thou  be  he,  come  hither  awhile — 

The  gillie  of  the  Man  from  Murthemne."  1 

I  went  to  her  slowly,  slowly, 
Fear  for  my  honour  seized  me, 
She  asked  me,  "  Comes  he  hither, 
The  famous  son  of  Dechtire  ?  " 

(LAEGH  addresses  CUCHULAIN) 

Alas,  that  he  2  went  not  long  ago, 
And  every  person  asking  it, 
That  he  might  see,  as  it  is, 
The  mighty  house  that  I  have  seen. 

1  i.e.  Cuchulain,  whose  home-lands  lay  in  the  Plain  of  Murthemne, 
in  the  district  of  Co.  Louth  ;  Laegh  was  Cuchulain's  charioteer. 

2  i.e.  Cuchulain  himself. 


68  ANCIENT  PAGAN   POEMS 

If  all  Eire  were  mine, 

And  the  kingdom  of  Magh  Breg  of  gold, 

I  would  give  it  (no  small  test) 

Could  I  frequent  the  place  where  I  have  been  ! 


THE  LAMENTATION  OF  FAND  WHEN  SHE  IS 
ABOUT  TO   LEAVE   CUCHULAIN 

From  the  "  Sickbed  of  Cuchulain." 

T  is  I  who  must  go  on  this  journey, 
Ou  great  necessity  were  best  for  me  ; 
Though  another  should  have  an   equal 

fame 
Happier  for  me  could  I  remain. 

Happier  it  were  for  me  to  be  here, 
Subject  to  thee  without  reproach, 
Than  to  go, — though  strange  it  may  seem 

to  thee, — 
To  the  royal  seat  of  Aed  Abrat. 

The  man  is  thine,  O  Emer, 

He  has  broken  from  me,  O  noble  wife, 

No  less,  the  thing  that  my  hand  cannot 

reach, 
I  am  fated  to  desire  it. 

Many  men  were  seeking  me 

Both  in  shelters  and  in  secret  places  ; 

My  tryst  was  never  made  with  them, 

Because  I  myself  was  high-minded. 
69 


70  ANCIENT  PAGAN  POEMS 

Joyless  she  who  gives  love  to  one 
Who  does  not  heed  her  love  ; 
It  were  better  for  her  to  be  destroyed 
If  she  be  not  loved  as  she  loves. 

With  fifty  women  hast  thou  come  hither, 
Noble  Emer,  of  the  yellow  locks, 
To  overthrow  Fand,  it  were  not  well 
To  kill  her  in  her  misery. 

Three  times  fifty  have  I  there, 
— Beautiful,  marriageable  women, — 
Together  with  me  in  the  fort : 
They  will  not  abandon  me. 


MIDER'S   CALL   TO   FAIRY-LAND 

From  the  "  Wooing  of  Etain." 

O  BEFIND,  wilt  them  come  with  me, 

To  the  wondrous  land  of  melody  ? 

The  crown  of  their  head  like  the  primrose  hair, 

Their  bodies  below  as  the  colour  of  snow. 

There  in  that  land  is  no  "  mine  "  or  "  thine," 
White  the  teeth  there,  eyebrows  black, 
Brilliant  the  eyes — great  is  the  host — 
And  each  cheek  the  hue  of  the  foxglove. 

How  heady  soever  the  ale  of  Inis  Fal 
More  intoxicating  is  the  ale  of  the  Great  Land  ; 
A  marvel  among  lands  the  land  of  which  I  speak, 
No  young  man  there  enters  on  old  age. 

Like  the  purple  of  the  plains  each  neck, 
Like  the  ousel's  egg  the  colour  of  the  eye  ; 
Though  fair  to  the  sight  are  the  Plains  of  Fal 
They  are  a  desert  to  him  who  has  known  the  Great 
Plain. 


72  ANCIENT  PAGAN  POEMS 

Warm,  sweet  streams  across  the  country, 
Choice  of  mead  and  wine, 
Distinguished  beings  who  know  no  stain, 
Conception  without  sin,  without  lust. 

We  behold  everyone  on  every  side, 
And  none  beholds  us  ; 
The  gloom  of  Adam's  transgression  it  is 
Conceals  us  from  their  reckoning. 

O  Woman,  if  thou  come  among  my  strong  people, 
A  golden  top  will  crown  thy  head  ; 
Fresh  swine-flesh,  new  milk  and  ale  for  drink 
Thou  shalt  have  with  me,  O  woman  fair  ! 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  FAIRIES 

When  they  made  the  road  across  the  bog  of  Lamracb  f<t 
Mider,  their  King. 

PILE  on  the  soil ;  thrust  on  the  soil : 
Red  are  the  oxen  around  who  toil : 
Heavy  the  troops  that  my  words  obey  ; 
Heavy  they  seem,  and  yet  men  are  they. 
Strongly,  as  piles,  are  the  tree-trunks  placed  : 
Red  are  the  wattles  above  them  laced  : 
Tired  are  your  hands,  and  your  glances  slant ; 
One  woman's  winning  this  toil  may  grant ! 

Oxen  ye  are,  but  revenge  shall  see  ; 

Men  who  are  white  shall  your  servants  be  ; 

Rushes  from  Teffa  are  cleared  away  ; 

Grief  is  the  price  that  the  man  shall  pay  : 

Stones  have  been  cleared  from  the  rough  Meath  ground 

Where  shall  the  gain  or  the  harm  be  found  ? 

Thrust  it  in  hand  !     Force  it  in  hand  ! 

Nobles  this  night,  as  an  ox-troop,  stand  ; 

Hard  is  the  task  that  is  asked,  and  who 

From  the  bridging  of  Lamrach  shall  gain,  or  rue  ? 

A.  H.  LEAHY. 


THE  GREAT  LAMENTATION   OF   DEIRDRE 
FOR  THE   SONS   OF   USNA 

"  As  to  Deirdre,  she  was  a  year  in  the  household  of 
Conchobar,  after  the  death  of  the  Sons  of  Usna.  And 
though  it  might  be  a  little  thing  to  raise  her  head  or 
to  bring  a  smile  over  her  lip,  never  once  did  she  do  it 
through  all  that  space  of  time.  .  .  .  She  took  not 
sufficiency  of  food  or  sleep,  nor  lifted  her  head  from  her 
knee.  When  people  of  amusement  were  sent  to  her,  she 
would  break  out  into  lamentation  : — 

Splendid  in  your  eyes  may  be  the  impetuous  champions 
Who  resort  to  Emain  after  a  foray  ; 
More  brilliant  yet  was  the  return 
Of  Usna's  heroes  to  their  home  ! 

Noisi  bearing  pleasant  mead  of  hazel-nuts  ; 
I  myself  bathed  him  at  the  fire  ; 
Ardan  bore  an  ox  or  boar  of  goodly  size, 
Ainle,  a  load  of  faggots  on  his  stately  back. 

Sweet  though  the  excellent  mead  be  found 
Drunk  by  the  son  of  Ness  of  mighty  conflicts ; 
I  have  shared  ere  now,  from  a  chase  on  the  borders, 
Abundant  provender  more  delicious ! 


THE  GREAT  LAMENTATION  OF  DEIRDRE  75 

\Vhen  for  the  cooking-hearth  noble  Noisi 

Unbound  the  faggots  on  the  forest  hero-board, 

More  pleasant  than  honey  was  each  food, 

Better  than  all  other  the  spoil  brought  in  by  Usna's  sons. 

How  melodious  soever  at  every  time 
May  be  the  sound  of  pipes  and  horns, 
Here  to-day  I  make  my  confession, 
I  have  heard  music  sweeter  far  ! 

Here  with  Conchobar  the  king 
Sweet  the  sound  of  pipes  and  horns  ; 
More  melodious  to  me  the  music, 
Famous  and  entrancing,  of  Usna's  sons. 

The  sound  of  the  wave  was  the  voice  of  Noisi, 

Melodious  music  that  wearied  not  ever  ; 

Mellow  the  rich-toned  notes  of  Ardan, 

Or  the  deep  chant  of  Ainle  through  the  hunting-booth. 

They  have  laid  Noisi  in  the  grave ; 
Woeful  to  me  was  that  convey,1 
The  company  whose  act  poured  out  for  them 
The  venomed  draught  from  which  they  died. 

Loved  one  of  the  well-trimmed  beard  !   most  fair  is  thy 

renown ! 

Shapely  one,  though  thy  renown  be  fair  ! 
Alas  !   to-day  I  rise  not  up 
To  greet  the  coming  of  Usna's  sons. 

*  i.e.  Fergus  mac  Roy  and  his  sons,  who  induced  the  sons  of 
Usna  to  return  with  them  to  Ireland,  where  they  were  slain  by 
King  Conchobar. 


76  ANCIENT  PAGAN   POEMS 

Beloved  thy  firm  and  upright  mind  ! 
Beloved,  high  champion,  modest-hearted, 
After  our  wandering  through  the  forests  of  Fal,1 
Gentle  the  caress  of  midnight. 

Dear  the  grey  eye,  a  woman's  love  ; 

Though  stern  of  aspect  to  the  foe  ! 

As  we  passed  through  the  trees  to  the  simple  tryst, 

Delightful  thy  deep  notes  across  the  sombre  woods ! 

I  sleep  no  more  ! 

No  more  I  stain  my  finger-nails  with  red  ; 
No  greeting  comes  to  me  who  watch — 
The  sons  of  Usna  return  no  more. 

I  sleep  not ! 

Through  half  the  wakeful  night 

My  mind  is  wandering  out  amongst  the  hosts  j 

Yet  more  than  that,  I  neither  eat  nor  smile. 

For  me  to-day  no  instant  of  deep  joy, 
Nor  noble  house,  nor  rich  adornments  please  ; 
In  Emain's  gatherings  of  her  mighty  men 
I  find  no  peace,  nor  pleasure,  nor  repose. 

Splendid    as    in    your    eyes    may    be    the    impetuous 

champions 

Who  resort  to  Emain  after  a  foray  ; 
More  brilliant  yet  was  the  return 
Of  Usna's  heroes  to  their  home  !  " 

i  Fdl  is  a  poetic  name  for  Ireland  ;  Inisfdil  means  "  the  Island 
of  destiny  "  or  of  "  knowledge." 


THE  GREAT  LAMENTATION  OF  DEIRDRE   77 

When  King  Conchobar  sought  to  soothe  her,  she  would 


"  What,  O  Conchobar,  of  thee  ? 

To  me   nought  but  tears  and  lamentation  hast   thou 

meted  out ; 

This  is  my  life,  so  long  as  life  shall  last ; 
Thy  love  for  me  is  as  a  flame  put  out.1 

He  who  to  me  was  fairest  under  heaven, 

He  who  was  most  beloved, 

Thou  hast  torn  him  from  me,  great  was  the  injury, 

I  see  him  not  until  I  die. 

The  secret  of  my  grief,  that  it  is  gone, 
The  form  of  Usna's  son  revealed  to  me  ; 
A  pile  I  see  dark-black  above  a  corpse, 
Bright  and  well  known  to  me  beyond  all  else. 


Break  not,  my  heart,  to-day  ! 

I  sink  ere  long  into  an  early  grave ; 

Like  to  the  strong  sea-wave 

The  grief  that  binds  me,  if  thou  but  knowest,  O  King ! 

What,  O  Conchobar,  of  thee  ? 

To  me  nought  but  tears  and  lamentation  hast  thou 

meted  out ; 

This  is  my  life,  so  long  as  life  shall  last ; 
Thy  love,  methinks,  is  as  a  flame  put  out." 

1  Lit.  "  is  not  lasting." 


OSSIANIC  POETRY 


"  Were  but  the  brown  leaf  which  the  wood  sheds  from  it  gold- 
were  but  the  white  billow  silter— Fionn  would  have  given  it  all 
away."— The  Colloquy  with  the  Ancients. 


FIRST  WINTER-SONG 


AKE  my  tidings  ! 
Stags  contend  ; 
Snows  descend  — 

Summer's  end  ! 


A  chill  wind  raging  ; 
The  sun  low  keeping, 
Swift  to  set 
O'er  seas  high  sweep- 
ing. 

Dull  red  the  fern  ; 

Shapes  are  shadows  : 

Wild  geese  mourn 

O'er  misty  meadows. 

Keen  cold  limes 
Each  weaker  wing. 
Icy  times  — 
Such  I  sing  ! 

Take  my  tidings  ! 
ALFRED  PERCEVAL  GRAVES. 


SECOND   WINTER-SONG 

COLD  till  Doom ! 

Glowers  more  fearfully  the  gloom  ! 
Each  gleaming  furrow  is  a  river, 
A  loch  in  each  ford's  room. 

Each  pool  is  deepened  to  a  perilous  pit, 
A  standing-stone  each  plain,  a  wood  each  moor  ; 
The  clamouring  flight  of  birds  no  shelter  finds, 
White  snow  winds  towards  the  door. 

Like  to  a  spectral  host  each  sharp  slim  shape, 
Each  leaping  lake  swelled  to  a  mighty  main  ; 
Wide  as  a  wether's  skin  each  falling  flake, 
Shield-broad,  each  drop  of  rain. 

Swift  frost  again  hath  fastened  all  the  ways, 
It  strove  and  struggled  upwards  o'er  the  wold, 
About  Colt's  standing-stone  the  tempest  sways, 
Shuddering,  men  cry,  "  'Tis  cold  !  " 


IN   PRAISE   OF   MAY 

Ascribed  to  Fionn  mac  CumhailL 

MAY-DAY  !  delightful  day  ! 
Bright  colours  play  the  vale  along. 
Now  wakes  at  morning's  slender  ray 
Wild  and  gay  the  blackbird's  song. 

Now  comes  the  bird  of  dusty  hue, 
The  loud  cuckoo,  the  summer-lover  : 
Branchy  trees  are  thick  with  leaves  ; 
The  bitter,  evil  time  is  over. 

Swift  horses  gather  nigh 
Where  half  dry  the  river  goes  ; 
Tufted  heather  clothes  the  height ; 
Weak  and  white  the  bogdown  blows. 

Corncrake  sings  from  eve  to  morn, 
Deep  in  corn,  a  strenuous  bard  ! 
Sings  the  virgin  waterfall, 
White  and  tall,  her  one  sweet  word. 

Loaded  bees  with  puny  power 
Goodly  flower-harvest  win ; 
Cattle  roam  with  muddy  flanks ; 
Busy  ants  go  out  and  in. 
83 


84  OSSIANIC  POETRY 

Through  the  wild  harp  of  the  wood 
Making  music  roars  the  gale — 
Now  it  settles  without  motion, 
On  the  ocean  sleeps  the  sail. 

Men  grow  mighty  in  the  May, 
Proud  and  gay  trie  maidens  grow  ; 
Fair  is  every  wooded  height ; 
Fair  and  bright  the  plain  below. 

A  bright  shaft  has  smit  the  streams, 
With  gold  gleams  the  water-flag  ; 
Leaps  the  fish,  and  on  the  hills 
Ardour  thrills  the  leaping  stag. 

Loudly  carols  the  lark  on  high, 
Small  and  shy,  his  tireless  lay, 
Singing  in  wildest,  merriest  mood, 
Delicate-hued,  delightful  May. 

T.  W.  ROU.ESTON. 


THE  ISLE  OF   ARRAN 

ARRAN  of  many  stags  ! 

Her  very  shoulders  washed  by  ocean's  foam  ; 

Of  companies  of  hardy  men  the  home, 

Whose  blue  spears  reddened  oft  along  her  crags 

Where  the  quick-leaping  deer  doth  roam. 

Beneath  her  russet  oaks  the  acorns  fall, 

Cool  water  in  her  streams,  and,  scattered  all, 

Dark  berries  lurk,  like  down-dropped  hidden  tears, 

Beneath  her  slowly-moving  grasses  tall. 

Greyhounds  there  were  in  her,  and  beagles  brown  ; 
And,  when  the  winding  horn  her  stillness  shocks, 
From  out  the  friendly  shelter  of  her  rocks 
The  startled  stag  leaps  down. 
Around  her  noble  crags,  in  thickening  flocks, 
To  one  another  wheeling  sea-mews  cry ; 
Yet,  all  unmoved,  the  fawns  feed  silently, 
Unconscious  of  the  storm-cloud's  gathering  frown 
That  spreads  across  the  leaden  autumn  sky. 

Smooth  were  her  level  lands  and  sleek  her  swine, 
Cheerful  her  fields  (true  is  the  tale  I  tell) 
The  heavy  hazel-boughs  remembered  well, 
The  purple  crop,  where  bramble-trails  entwine. 
85 


86  OSSIANIC  POETRY 

Above  the  nestling  homesteads  of  the  dell. 

Her  whispering  streams,  her  clear  deep  pools  I  miss, 

Where  brown  trout  browse  beneath  the  fairy  liss  ; 

Pleasant  thine  isle,  Arran  of  bounding  stags, 

On  such  a  sultry  summer's  day  as  this. 


THE  PARTING   OF   GOLL  FROM 
HIS  WIFE 

When  they  are  shut  up  by  Fionn  on  a  sea-girt  rock, 
without  chance  of  escape. 

A  DIALOGUE 
(GoLL  speaks) 

THE  end  is  come  ;   upon  this  narrow  rock 

To-morrow  I  must  die  ; 
Wife  of  the  ruddy  cheeks  and  hair  of  flame, 

Leave  me  to-night  and  fly. 

Seek  out  the  camp  of  Fionn  and  of  his  men 

Upon  the  westward  side  ; 
Take  there,  in  time  to  come,  another  mate. 

Here  I  abide. 

(GoLL's  wife  replies) 

Which  way,  O  Goll,  is  my  way,  and  thou  perished  ? 

Alas  !   few  friends  have  I ! 
Small  praise  that  woman  hath  whose  lord  is  gone 

And  no  protector  nigh  ! 
87 


88  OSSIANIC   POETRY 

What  man  should  I  wed  f     I  whom  great  Goll  cherished 

And  made  his  wife  ? 
Where  in  the  East  or  West  should  one  be  sought 

To  mend  my  broken  life  ? 

Shall  I  take  Ofsin,  son  of  Fionn  the  Wise  ? 

Or  Carroll  of  the  blood-stained  hand  f 
Shall  I  make  Angus,  son  of  Hugh,  my  prize  ? 

Or  swift-foot  Corr,  chief  of  the  fighting-band  ? 

I  am  as  good  as  they  ;   aye,  good  and  better, 

Daughter  of  Conall,  Monarch  of  the  West, 

Fostered  was  I  with  Conn  the  Hundred- Fighter, 
Best  among  all  the  best. 

Thee  out  of  all  I  loved,  thee  my  first  master, 

Gentlest  and  bravest  thou  ; 
Seven  years  we  lived  and  loved,  through  calm  and  tumult, 

And  shall  I  leave  thee  now  ? 

From  that  night  till  to-night  I  found  thee  never 

Of  harsh  and  churlish  mind  ; 
And  here  I  vow,  no  other  man  shall  touch  me, 

Kind  or  unkind. 

Here  on  this  narrow  crag,  foodless  and  sleepless, 

Thou  takest  thy  last  stand  ; 
A  hundred  heroes,  Goll,  lie  rotting  round  thee, 

Slain  by  thy  dauntless  hand. 

In  the  wide  ocean  near  us,  life  is  teeming  ; 

Yet  on  this  barren  rock 
I  sink  from  hunger,  and  the  wild  briny  waters 

My  thirst-pangs  mock. 


THE  PARTING  OF  GOLL  FROM  HIS  WIFE    89 

Fierce  is  our  hunger,  fierce  are  the  five  battalions 

Sent  here  to  conquer  thee  ; 
But  fiercer  yet  the  drought  that  steals  my  beauty 

Midst  this  surrounding  sea. 

Though  all  my  dear  loved  brothers  by  one  caitiff 

Lay  slaughtered  in  my  sight, 
That  man  I'd  call  my  friend,  yea,  I  would  love  him, 

Could  my  thirst  ease  to-night. 

Eat,  Son  of  Morna,  batten  on  these  dead  bodies, 

This  is  my  last  behest ; 
Feast  well,  gaunt  Goll,  then  quench  thy  awful  craving 

Here  at  my  breast. 

Nought  is  there  more  to  fear,  nought  to  be  hoped  for, 

Of  life  and  all  bereft 
High  on  this  crag,  abandoned  and  forsaken, 

Nor  hope  nor  shame  is  left. 

(GoLL  speaks) 

King  Conall's  daughter,  cease  this  mad  entreaty, 

Cease  thou,  I  pray  ; 
Never  have  I  a  woman's  counsel  asked  for, 

Far  less  to-day. 

Oh  !   pitiful  how  this  thing  hath  befallen, 
Little  red  mouth ! 


Lips  that  of  old  made  speech  and  happy  rr. 
Now  dry  and  harsh  with  drouth. 


90  OSSIANIC  POETRY 

Ever  I  feared  this  end  ;   my  haunting  terror 

By  wave  and  land 
Was  to  be  caught  by  Fionn  and  his  battalions 

On  some  stark,  foodless  strand. 

Depart  not  yet ;  upon  this  barren  islet, 

Beneath  this  brazen  sky, 
Sweet  lips  and  gentle  heart,  we  sit  together 

Until  we  die. 


YOUTH   AND   AGE 

From  the  "  Poem-book  of  Fionn." 


NCE  I  was  yellow-haired,  and  ring- 
lets feU, 

I  n  clusters  round  mybrow; 

Grizzled  and  sparse  to- 
night my  short  grey 
crop, 

No  lustre  in  it  now. 

Better  to  me  the  shining 
locks  of  youth, 

Or  raven's  dusky  hue, 

Than  drear  old  age,  which 
chilly  wisdom  brings, 

If  what  they  say  be  true. 

I  only  know  that  as  I  pass  the  road, 
No  woman  looks  my  way  ; 

They  think  my  head  and  heart  alike  are  cold- 
Yet  I  have  had  my  day. 


CHILL   WINTER 

NIPPING  this  winter's  night,  the  snow  drifts  by, 
Below  the  hill  the  boisterous  billows  roar  ; 

'Tis  bitter  cold  to-night  the  mountain  o'er, 
Yet  still  the  ungovernable  stag  bells  forth  his 
cry. 

To-night  laid  not  his  side  upon  the  ground 
The  deer  of  Slievecarn  of  the  hundred  fights ; 

He,  with  the  stag  of  Echtge's  frozen  heights, 
Caught  the  wolves'  snarl,  and  quivered  at  the 
sound. 

I,  Caoilte,  wakeful  lie,  and  Dermot  Donn, 
We,  with  keen  Oscar  of  the  footsteps  fleet, 

Watch  the  slew  hours  of  moving  night  retreat, 
Whilst  the  dread  pack  of  hungry  wolves  comes  on. 

Well  rests  the  ruddy  deer  in  dawn's  dim  light, 
Deep  breathing  near  the  covering  earthen  mound, 

Hidden  from  sight,  as  'twere  beneath  the  ground, 
All  in  the  latter  end  of  chilly  night. 


CHILL   WINTER  93 

I  sit  to-night  amongst  the  ancient  race, 
And  of  the  younger  men  but  few  I  know, 

Though,  in  the  ice-bound  mornings  long  ago, 
From  my  firm  grasp  the  javelin  flew  apace. 

I  thank  Heaven's  King,  I  thank  sweet  Mary's  Son, 
My  hand  it  was  that  silenced  countless  men ; 

They  lie  stretched  out  beneath  us  in  the  glen, 

Colder  than  we,  death-cold,  lies  many  and  many  an  one. 


THE  SLEEP-SONG  OF  GRAINNE 
OVER   DERMUID 

When  fleeing  from  Fionn 
From  the  "  Poem-book  of  Fionn." 

SLEEP  a  little,  a  little  little,  thou  needest  feel  no  fear  or 

dread, 
Youth  to  whom  my  love  is  given,  I  am  watching  near  thy 

head. 

Sleep  a  little,  with  my  blessing,  Dermuid  of  the  light- 
some eye, 

I  will  guard  thee  as  thou  dreamest,  none  shall  harm 
while  I  am  by. 

Sleep,  O  little  lamb,  whose  homeland  was  the  country  of 

the  lakes, 
In  whose  bosom  torrents  tremble,  from  whose  sides  the 

river  breaks. 

Sleep  as  slept  the  ancient  poet,  Dedach,  minstrel  of  the 

South, 
When  he  snatched  from  Conall  Cernach  Eithne  of  the 

laughiag  mouth. 

94 


THE   SLEEP-SONG   OF   GRAINNE  95 

Sleep  as  slept  the  comely  Finncha  'neath  the  falls  of 
Assaroe, 

Who,  when  stately  Slaine  sought  him,  laid  the  Hard- 
head Failbe  low. 


Sleep  in  joy,  as  slept  fair  Aine,  Gailan's  daughter  of   the 

west, 
Where,  amid  the  flaming  torches,  she  and  Duvach  found 

their  rest. 

Sleep  as  Degha,  who  in  triumph,  ere  the  sun  sank  o'er 

the  land, 
Stole  the  maiden  he  had  craved  for,  plucked  her  from 

fierce  Deacall's  hand. 

Fold  of  Valour,  sleep  a  little,  Glory  of  the  Western  world  ; 
I  am  wondering  at  thy  beauty,  marvelling  how  thy  locks 
are  curled. 

Like  the  parting  of  two  children,  bred  together  in  one 

home, 
Like  the  breaking  of  two  spirits,  if  I  did  not  see  you  come. 

Swirl  the  leaves  before  the  tempest,  moans  the  night- 
wind  o'er  the  lea, 

Down  its  stony  bed  the  streamlet  hurries  onward  to  the 
sea. 

In  the  swaying  boughs  the  linnet  twitters  in  the  darkling 

light, 
On  the  upland  wastes  of  heather  wings  the  grouse  its 

heavy  flight. 


96  OSSIANIC  POETRY 

la  the  marshland  by  the  river  sulks  the  otter  in  his 

den ; 
While  the  piping  of  the  peeweet  sounds  across  the  distant 

fen. 

On  the  stormy  mere  the  wild-duck  pushes  outward  from 

the  brake, 
With  her  downy  brood  beside  her  seeks  the  centre  of 

the  lake. 

In  the  east  the  restless  roe-deer  bellows  to  his  frightened 

hind; 
On  thy  track  the  wolf-hounds  gather,  sniffing  up  against 

the  wind. 

Yet,  O  Dermuid,  sleep  a  little,  this  one  night  our  fear 

hath  fled, 
Youth  to  whom  my  love  is  given,  see,  I  watch  beside  thy 

bed. 


THE  SLAYING  OF   CONBEG 

A  beloved,  hound,  of  Fionn's  which  Goll  mac  Morna  drounifd 
in  despite  of  Fionn. 

CAOILTE  sang  this  : 
MOURNFUL  to  me  the  slaying  of  Conbeg,1 

Little  hound,  great  was  his  brightness  ; 
Never  was  one  more  deft  of  paw 

Seen  in  the  chase  of  swine  or  deer. 

Tribulation  to  me  the  slaying  of  Conbeg, 
Little  hound,  of  the  baying  voice  ; 

Never  was  one  more  deft  of  paw 

Found  in  the  running  down  of  the  deer. 

Tribulation  to  me  the  drowning  of  Conbeg 
Upon  the  mighty  grey-green  seas  ; 

His  cruel  loss,  it  brought  contention,2 
A  "  fill  of  sorrow  "  was  his  death. 

i  Conbeg  means  "  little  hound." 

»  i.e.  between  Fionn  and  Goll ;  Goll  was  leader  of  the  Conmicht 
Fians  and  the  deadly  enemy  of  Fionn. 


THE   FAIRIES'   LULLABY 


Y  mirth  and  merriment,  soft  and  sweet 

art  thou, 

't        Child  of  the  race  of  Conn  art  thou ; 
My  mirth  and  merriment,  soft  and 
sweet  art  thou, 

Of   the   race   of  Coll  and 
Conn  art  thou. 

My    smooth     green     rush,     my 

laughter  sweet, 

My  little  plant  in  the  rocky  cleft, 
Were  it  not  for  the  spell  on  thy 
tiny  feet 

Thou  wouldst  not  here  be 
left, 

Not  thou. 


Of  the  race  of  Coll  and  Conn  art  thou, 
My  laughter,  sweet  and  low  art  thou ; 
As  you  crow  on  my  knee, 

I  would  lift  you  with  me, 
Were  it  not  for  the  mark  that  is  on  your  feet 
I  would  lift  you  away, 

and  away, 

with  me. 


SONG   OF  THE   FOREST  TREES 

O  MAN  that  for  Fergus  of  the  feasts  dost  kindle  fire, 
Whether  afloat  or  ashore  burn  not  the  king  of  woods. 

Monarch  of  Innisfail's  forests  the  woodbine  is,  whom 

none  may  hold  captive  ; 
No  feeble  sovereign's  effort  is  it  to  hug  all  tough  trees 

in  his  embrace. 

The  pliant  woodbine  if  thou  burn,  wailings  for  mis- 
fortune will  abound, 

Dire  extremity  at  weapons'  points  or  drowning  in  great 
waves  will  follow. 

Burn  not  the  precious  apple-tree  of  spreading  and  low- 
sweeping  bough ; 

Tree  ever  decked  in  bloom  of  white,  against  whose  fair 
head  all  men  put  forth  the  hand. 

The  surly  blackthorn    is  a  wanderer,  a  wood  that  the 

artificer  burns  not ; 
Throughout  his  body,  though  it  be  scanty,  birds  in  their 

flocks  warble. 

The  noble  willow  burn  not,  a  tree  sacred  to  poems  ; 
Within  his  bloom  bees  are  a-sucking,  all  love  the  little 
cage. 

99 


ioo  OSSIANIC  POETRY 

The  graceful  tree  with  the  berries,  the  wizard's  tree,  the 

rowan,  burn ; 
But  spare  the  limber  tree ;  burn  not  the  slender  hazel. 

Dark  is  the  colour  of  the  ash ;    timber  that  makes  the 

wheels  to  go ; 
Rods  he  furnishes  for  horsemen's  hands,  his  form  turns 

battle  into  flight. 

Tenterhook  among  woods  the  spiteful  briar  is,  burn  him 

that  is  so  keen  and  green  ; 
He  cuts,  he  flays  the  foot,  him  that  would  advance  he 

forcibly  drags  backward. 

Fiercest  heat-giver  of  all  timber  is  green  oak,  from  him 

none  may  escape  unhurt ; 
By  partiality  for  him  the  head  is  set  on  aching,  and  by 

his  acrid  embers  the  eye  is  made  sore. 

Alder,  very  battle-witch  of  all  woods,  tree  that  is  hottest 

in  the  fight — 
Undoubtedly  burn  at  thy  discretion  both  the  alder  and 

whitethorn. 

Holly,  burn  it  green  ;  holly,  burn  it  dry  ; 

Of  all  trees  whatsoever  the  critically  best  is  holly. 

Elder  that  hath  tough  bark,  tree  that  in  truth  hurts 

sore; 
Him  that  furnishes  horses  to  the  armies  from  the  sidh 

burn  so  that  he  be  charred. 


SONG  OF  THE   FOREST  TREES          101 

The  birch  as  well,  if  he  be  laid  low,  promises  abiding 

fortune ; 
Burn  up  most  sure  and  certainly  the  stalks  that  bear  the 

constant  pods. 

Suffer,  if  it  so  please  thee,  the  russet  aspen  to  come  head- 
long down  ; 
Burn,  be  it  late  or  early,  the  tree  with  the  palsied  branch. 

Patriarch  of  long-lasting  woods  is  the  yew,  sacred  to 

feasts,  as  is  well-known  ; 
Of  him  now  build  ye  dark-red  vats  of  goodly  size. 

Ferdedh,  thou  faithful  one,  wouldst  thou  but  do  my 
behest : 

To  thy  soul  as  to  thy  body,  O  man,  'twould  work  ad- 
vantage. 

STANDISH  HAYES  O'G»ADT. 


EARLY  CHRISTIAN  POEMS 


ST.   PATRICK'S  BREASTPLATE 


ARISE  to-day 

Through  the  strength  of  heaven  : 

Light  of  sun, 

Radiance  of  moon, 

Splendour  of  fire, 

Speed  of  lightning, 

Swiftness  of  wind, 

Depth  of  sea, 

Stability  of  earth, 

Firmness  of  rock. 

I  arise  to-day 

Through  God's  strength  to  pilot  me : 
God's  might  to  uphold  me, 
God's  wisdom  to  guide  me, 
God's  eye  to  look  before  me, 
God's  ear  to  hear  me, 
God's  word  to  speak  for  me, 
God's  hand  to  guard  me, 
God's  way  to  lie  before  me, 
God's  shield  to  protect  me, 
God's  host  to  save  me 
From  snares  of  devils, 
From  temptations  of  vices, 


io6  EARLY   CHRISTIAN   POEMS 

From  every  one  who  shall  wish  me  ill, 

Afar  and  anear, 

Alone  and  in  a  multitude. 

Christ  to  shield  me  to-day 

Against  poison,  against  burning, 

Against  drowning,  against  wounding, 

So  that  there  may  come  to  me  abundance  of  reward. 

Christ  with  me,  Christ  before  me,  Christ  behind  me, 

Christ  in  me,  Christ  beneath  me,  Christ  above  me, 

Christ  on  my  right,  Christ  on  my  left, 

Christ  when  I  lie  down,  Christ  when  I  sit  down,  Christ 

when  I  arise, 

Christ  in  the  heart  of  every  man  who  thinks  of  me, 
Christ  in  the  mouth  of  every  one  who  speaks  of  me, 
Christ  in  every  eye  that  sees  me, 
Christ  in  every  ear  that  hears  me. 

I  arise  to-day 

Through   a   mighty   strength,    the   invocation   of   the 

Trinity, 

Through  belief  in  the  threeness, 
Through  confession  of  the  oneness 
Of  the  Creator  of  Creation. 

KUNO  MEYER. 


PATRICK'S   BLESSING  ON   MUNSTER 

BLESSING  from  the  Lord  on  High 
Over  Munster  fall  and  lie  ; 
To  her  sons  and  daughters  all 
Choicest  blessings  still  befall ; 
Fruitful  blessing  on  the  soil 
That  supports  her  faithful  toil ! 

Blessing  full  of  ruddy  health, 
Blessing  full  of  every  wealth 
That  her  borders  furnish  forth, 
East  and  west  and  south  and  north  ; 
Blessings  from  the  Lord  on  high 
Over  Munster  fall  and  lie  ! 

Blessing  on  her  peaks  in  air, 
Blessing  on  her  flag-stones  bare  ; 
Blessing  from  her  ridges  flow 
To  her  grassy  glens  below ; 
Blessings  from  the  Lord  on  High 
Over  Munster  fall  and  lie  ! 

As  the  sands  upon  her  shore 
Underneath  her  ships,  for  store, 


io8  EARLY   CHRISTIAN   POEMS 

Be  her  hearths,  a  twinkling  host 
Over  mountain,  plain  and  coast ! 
Blessing  from  the  Lord  on  High 
Over  Munster  fall  and  lie  ! 
»  ALFRED  PERCEVAL  GRAVES. 


COLUMCILLE'S  FAREWELL  TO 
ARAN   OF  THE  SAINTS 

St.  Columcille,  or  Columba,  was  born  521,  died  597  A.D. 

FAREWELL  from  me  to  Ara's  Isle, 
Her  smile  is  at  my  heart  no  more, 

No  more  to  me  the  boon  is  given 
With  hosts  of  heaven  to  walk  her  shore. 


How  far,  alas  !    How  far,  alas ! 

Have  I  to  pass  from  Ara's  view, 
To  mil  with  men  from  Mona's  fen, 

With  men  from  Alba's  mountains  blue. 


O  Ara,  darling  of  the  West, 

Ne'er  be  he  blest  who  loves  not  thee  ! 
O  God,  cut  short  her  foeman's  breath, 

Let  hell  and  death  his  portion  be. 

O  Ara,  darling  of  the  West, 

Ne'er  be  he  blest  who  loves  not  thee, 
Herdless  and  childless  may  he  go, 

In  endless  woe  his  doom  to  dree. 

109 


EARLY   CHRISTIAN   POEMS 

O  Ara,  darling  of  the  West, 

Ne'er  be  he  blest  who  loves  thee  not, 

When  angels  wing  from  heaven  on  high, 
And  leave  the  sky  for  this  dear  spot. 

DOUGLAS  HYDF. 


ST.  COLUMBA   IN   IONA 

From  an  Irish  MS.  in  the  Burgundian  Library,  Brussels. 

DELIGHTFUL  would  it  be  to  me 

On  a  pinnacle  of  rock, 
That  I  might  often  see 

The  face  of  the  ocean  ; 
That  I  might  watch  its  heaving  waves 

Over  the  wide  sea 
When  they  chant  music  to  their  Father 

Upon  the  world's  course  ; 
That  I  might  see  its  level  sparkling  strand, 

It  would  be  no  cause  of  sorrow  ; 
That  I  might  hear  the  song  of  the  wonderful  birds, 

Source  of  happiness ; 
That  I  might  hear  the  thunder  of  the  clamorous  waves 

Upon  the  rocks ; 
That  I  might  hear  the  roar  by  the  side  of  the  church 

Of  the  surrounding  sea  ; 
That  I  might  watch  its  noble  bird-flocks 

Flying  over  the  watery  surf  ; 
That  I  might  see  the  ocean-monsters, 

Greatest  of  all  wonders ; 
That  I  might  observe  its  ebb  and  flood 

In  their  cycles ; 


H2  EARLY   CHRISTIAN   POEMS 

That  my  mystical  name  might  be,  i'faith, 

"  Cul  ri  Erin." 
That  on  my  heart  contrition  might  fall 

On  looking  upon  her  ; 
That  I  might  bewail  my  evils  all, 

Though  it  were  not  easy  to  number  them  ; 
That  I  might  bless  the  Lord 

Who  orders  all ; 
Heaven  with  its  countless  bright  orders 

Land,  strand  and  flood  ; 
That  I  might  search  in  all  the  books 

That  which  would  help  my  soul ; 
At  times  kneeling  to  the  Heaven  of  my  heart, 

At  times  singing  psalms  ; 
At  times  meditating  on  the  King  of  Heaven, 

Chief  of  the  Holy  Ones  ; 
At  times  at  work  without  compulsion 

This  would  be  delightful. 
At  times  plucking  duUisc  from  the  rocks  ; 

At  other  times  fishing  ; 
At  times  distributing  food  to  the  poor, 

At  times  in  a  hermitage  ; 
The  best  guidance  from  the  presence  of  God 

Has  been  vouchsafed  to  me  ; 
The  King  whom  I  serve  will  keep  from  me 

All  things  that  would  deceive  me. 

EUGENE  O'CURRY. 


HYMN  TO   THE  DAWN 

Ascribed  to  St.  Cellach  of  Killala,  when  imprisoned  in  a  hollow 
oak  on  the  morning  before  his  murder  by  his  old  comrades, 
circa  $40. 

HAIL  to  the  morning  fair,  that  falls  as  a  flame  on  the 

greensward ; 
Hail,  too,  unto  Him  who  bestows  her,  the  morn  ever 

fruitful  in  blessings. 

Robed  in  her  pride  she  comes,  the  brilliant  sun's  little 

sister, 
Hail  to  thee,  Dawn,  thrice  hail  1   that  lightest  my  book 

of  the  hours. 

Thou  searchest  the  secret  dwelling,  on  clansman  and 
kindred  thou  shinest ; 

White-necked,  beautiful,  hail !  who  makest  thine  up- 
rising golden ! 

The  chequered  page  of  my  booklet  tells  me  my  life  was 

erring; 
Melcroin,  'tis  thee  whom  I  fear,  'tis  from  thee  that  shall 

come  my  undoing. 

Scallcrow,  thou  paltry  fowl,  sharp-beaked,  grey-coated 

and  cruel, 
Full  well  do  I  guess  thy  desire,  no  friendship  hast  thou 

unto  Cellach. 


1 14  EARLY   CHRISTIAN  POEMS 

Raven,  O  Raven,  that  croakest,  from  the  top  of  the  rath 

thou  art  watching, 
Wait  but  awhile,  bird  of  death,  and  most  surely  my  flesh 

will  suffice  thee. 

Fiercely  the  kite  of  Cluain  Eo  will  take  his  part  in  the 

scramble, 
His  talons  filled  with  my  flesh,  flying  off  to  his  haunt  in 

the  yew-tree. 

Swift  through  the  darkling  woodland  the  foxes  will  scent 

out  my  slaughter, 
They  on  the  confines  trackless   my  flesh  and  my  blood 

will  devour. 

The  mighty  wolf  from  his  lair  'neath  the  rath  on  the 

East  of  Drumm  Dara, 
To  the  banquet  of  bones  will  betake  him,  prime  chief 

of  the  curs  he  will  boast  him. 

Wednesday   night   past   I    saw   visions,    the   wild   dogs 

troubled  my  slumbers, 
Hither  and  thither  they  dragged  me  through  russet  ferns 

of  the  coppice. 

'Twas  in  a  dream  I  saw  it ;  to  the  lonely  green  glen  men 

bore  me ; 
Five  men  were  we  who  went  thither,  I  saw  only  four 

returning.1 

1  Compare  "So  the  two  brothers  and  their  murdered  man  rode 
past  fair  Florence,"  in  Keats'  Isabella  or  the  Pot  of  Basil,  Stanza 


HYMN  TO  THE  DAWN  115 

'Twas  in  a  dream  I  saw  it ;  to  their  dwelling  my  comrades 

allured  me  ; 
They  poured  out  the  cup  of  old  friendship,  they  quaffed 

to  my  luck  and  long  living. 

Scant  is  thy  tail,  tiny  wren ;  thy  doleful  pipe  is  pro- 
phetic ; 

Perhaps  it  is  thou  art  the  traitor  ;  thou,  and  not  they, 
my  destroyer. 


For  why  should  Mac  Deora  deceive  me  ?    His  father 

and  mine  were  brothers ; 
Oh  !    monstrous  deed  and  unholy,  that  he  should  desire 

to  harm  me ! 


Or  why  should  Meldalua  hurt  me  ?    my  cousin  is  he  by 

his  mother ; 
Twin  sisters  his  mother  and  mine,  yet  in  truth  it  was  he 

who  betrayed  me. 


What  ill  can  I  get  from  Melsenig  ?     For  a  pure  man's 

son  I  have  held  him  ; 
Melsenig,  the  son  of  Melibar,  'tis  he  who  hath  plotted 

my  downfall. 


Melcroin,  my  playfellow  Melcroin,  the    crime    of  thy 

act  is  yet  deeper  ; 
For  ten  thousand  ingots  of  gold  would  not  Cellach  have 

stooped  to  betray  thee. 


n6  EARLY   CHRISTIAN   POEMS 

Vain  pelf  hath  allured  thee,  O  Melcroin,  the  love  of  this 

world's  fleeting  pleasures, 
For  the  guerdon  of  hell  hast  thou  sold  me,  hast  sold  me, 

thy  friend  and  thy  brother  ! 

All  precious  things  that  I  had,  my  treasures,  my  sleek- 
coated  horses, 

Would  I  have  given  to  Melcroin,  to  win  him  away  from 
this  treason  ! 

Yet  in  high  heaven  above  me,  the  great  Son  of  Mary  is 

speaking ; 
"  Thou  art  forsaken  on  earth  ;  but  a  welcome  awaits  thee 

in  heaven." 


THE  SONG  OF  MANCHAN 
THE  HERMIT 

Abbot  of  Liath  Manchan,  now  Lemanaghan,  in  King's  Co. 
Died  665  A.D. 

I  WISH,  O  Son  of  the  Living  God,  O  Ancient  Eternal 

King, 
For  a  hidden  hut  in  the  wilderness,  a  simple  secluded 

thing. 

The  all-blithe  lithe  little  lark  in  his  place,  chanting  his 

lightsome  lay ; 
The  calm,  clear  pool  of  the  Spirit's  grace,  washing  my 

sins  away. 

A  wide,  wild  woodland  on  every  side,  its  shades  the 

nursery 
Of  glad-voiced  songsters,  who  at  day-dawn  chant  their 

sweet  psalm  for  me. 

A  southern  aspect  to  catch  the  sun,  a  brook  across  the 

floor, 
A  choice  land,  rich  with  gracious  gifts,  down-stretching 

from  my  door. 


ii8  EARLY  CHRISTIAN  POEMS 

Few  men  and  wise,  these  I  would  prize,  men  of  content 

and  power, 
To  raise  Thy  praise  throughout  the  days  at  each  canonical 

hour. 

Four  times  three,  three  times  four,  fitted  for  every  need, 
To  the  King  of  the  Sun  praying  each  one,  this  were  a 
grace,  indeed. 

Twelve  in  the  church  to  chant  the  hours,  kneeling  there 

twain  and  twain ; 
And  I  before,  near  the  chancel  door,  listening  their  low 

refrain. 

A  pleasant  church  with  an  Altar-cloth,  where  Christ  sits 

at  the  board, 
And  a  shining  candle  shedding  its  ray  on  the  white  words 

of  the  Lord. 

Brief  meals  between,  when  prayer  is  done,  our  modest 

needs  supply  ; 
No  greed  in  our  share  of  the  simple  fare,  no  boasting  or 

ribaldry. 

This  is  the  husbandry  I  choose,  laborious,  simple,  free, 
The  fragrant  leek  about  my  door,  the  hen  and  the  humble 
bee. 

Rough  raiment  of  tweed,  enough  for  my  need,  this  will 

my  King  allow ; 
And  I  to  be  sitting  praying  to  God  under  every  leafy 

bough. 


A  PRAYER 

BE  Thou  my  Vision,  O  Lord  of  my  heart, 
Naught  is  all  else  to  me,  save  that  Thou  art. 

Thou  my  best  thought  by  day  and  by  night, 
Waking  or  sleeping,  Thy  presence  my  light. 

Be  Thou  my  Wisdom,  Thou  my  true  Word  ; 
I  ever  with  Thee,  Thou  with  me,  Lord. 

Thou  my  great  Father,  I  thy  dear  son  ; 
Thou  in  me  dwelling,  I  with  Thee  one. 

Be  Thou  my  battle-shield,  sword  for  the  fight, 
Be  Thou  my  dignity,  Thou  my  delight. 

Thou  my  soul's  shelter,  Thou  my  high  tower  ; 
Raise  Thou  me  heavenward,  Power  of  my  power. 

Riches  I  heed  not  or  man's  empty  praise, 
Thou  mine  inheritance  now  and  always. 

Thou,  and  Thou  only,  first  in  my  heart, 
High  King  of  Heaven,  my  treasure  Thou  art. 


EARLY  CHRISTIAN   POEMS 

King  of  the  seven  heavens,  grant  me  for  dole, 
Thy  love  in  my  heart,  Thy  light  in  my  soul. 

Thy  light  from  my  soul,  Thy  love  from  my  heart, 
King  of  the  seven  heavens,  may  they  never  depart. 

With  the  High  King  of  heaven,  after  victory  won, 
May  I  reach  heaven's  joys,  O  Bright  heaven's  Sun  ! 

Heart  of  my  own  heart,  whatever  befall, 
Still  be  my  Vision,  O  Ruler  of  all. 


THE   LOVES  OF  LIADAN 
AND  CURITHIR 

St.  Cummine,  in  whose  days  the  lovers  lived,  died  661.     The 
language  is  of  the  ninth  century. 

A  YOUNG  poet  and  poetess  of  Connaught  were  be- 
trothed; but  during  the  year's  interval  preceding  their 
marriage,  Liadan,  for  some  unexplained  reason,  took  the 
veil.  When  Curithir  returned  to  fetch  her  to  his  home, 
he  found  that  by  her  vows  she  had  for  ever  separated 
herself  from  him.  In  his  despair  he  determined  to 
follow  her  example  and  become  a  monk.  The  lovers 
placed  themselves  together  under  the  direction  of  St. 
Cummine,  a  severe  and  hard  man,  who  permitted  them 
to  meet,  with  the  object  of  accusing  them  of  wrong- 
doing. Finally,  he  gave  Curithir  the  choice  of  seeing 
Liadan  without  speaking  to  her,  or  speaking  to  her  with- 
out seeing.  He  chooses  the  latter,  and  henceforth  they 
wander  round  each  other's  cells,  speaking  together 
through  the  wattled  walls,  but  never  looking  on  each 
other's  faces.  The  time  comes  when  this  can  be  no 
longer  borne,  and  Curithir  sails  away  to  strange  lands  on 
pilgrimage,  so  that  Liadan  saw  him  no  more.  She  died 
upon  the  flagstone  on  which  Curithir  was  wont  to  pray, 
and  was  buried  beneath  it. 
The  poem  is  in  the  form  of  a  dialogue. 


122  EARLY  CHRISTIAN  POEMS 


speaks) 

Curithir,  maker  of  sweet  song, 
By  me  beloved,  you  do  me  wrong  ! 
Dear  master  of  the  two  Grey  Feet,1 
Is  it  like  this  we  meet  ? 

(CURITHIR  speaks) 

Of  late, 

Since  I  and  Liadan  understood  our  fate, 
Each  day  hath  been  a  month  of  fasting  days, 
Each  month  a  year  of  doubting  of  God's  ways. 

I  had  my  choice 

To  see  her  gentle  form,  or  hear  her  voice  ; 

"  Some  comfort  yet  may  reach  her  from  my  speech," 

I  said  ;  "  we  have  been  ever  looking  each  at  each." 

(LIADAN  speaks) 

His  voice  comes  up  to  me  again, 
Is  it  in  blame,  or  is  it  pain  ? 
I  catch  its  accents  strained  and  deep, 
And  cannot  sleep. 

The  flagstone  where  he  bent  the  knee, 
Beside  the  wattled  oratory, 
'Tis  there,  at  eve,  each  lonely  day, 
I  go  to  pray. 

1  A  play  on  Curithir's  patronymic,  Mac  Doborchon,  i.e.  "  Son  of 
the  Otter." 


THE  LOVES  OF  LI  AD  AN  AND  CURITHIR     123 

Never  for  him  dear  hearth  or  wife, 
Homestead,  or  innocent  baby  life  ; 
No  mate  at  his  right  hand 
Will  ever  stand. 

Cummine  accuses  her  of  wrong  and  she  turns  on  him  : 

Cleric,  thy  thought  is  ill ; 
Not  with  my  will  you  link  my  name  with  his, 
From  Loch  Seng's  borderland  he  comes,  I  wis, 
I  from  lar-Conchin's  Cill. 

We  met,  you  say  ; 

But  sure,  no  honeyed  pastures  of  the  flock 
Where  lover's  arms  in  lover's  arms  enlock, 
Was  ours  that  May. 

If  Curithir  is  gone  to-day 

To  teach  the  little  scholars  of  the  school, 

Small  help  he'll  get  who  does  not  know  his  rule  ; 

Curithir's  thoughts  are  very  far  away. 

At  length  the  news  is  brought  to  her  that  Curithir  is 
gone  for  ever,  and  she  breaks  out  into  a  passionate  lament. 

The  Cry  of  LIADAN  after  CURITHIR 

'Tis  done ! 

Joyless  the  victory  I  have  won, 

The  tender  heart  of  him  I  loved  I  wrung  ! 

He  called  me  near 

A  little  space  to  please  him,  but  the  fear 

Of  God  in  heaven  withheld  me,  and  I  would  not  hear. 


I24  EARLY   CHRISTIAN  POEMS 

Great  gain 

To  us  the  way  love  pointed  plain, 

To  win  the  gates  of  Paradise  through  pain. 

Reckless  and  vain 

The  whim  that  caused  my  lover's  love  to  dim  ; 

Great  ever  was  my  gentleness  to  him. 

Liadan  am  I, 

And  Curithir  I  loved  ;  it  is  no  lie, 

He  would  not  doubt  me  now  if  he  were  by. 

Short  while  were  we 

Together  in  the  closest  intimacy, 

Sweet  was  the  time  to  him,  and  sweet  to  me. 

The  music  of  the  lightly  waving  tree, 
When  Curithir  was  here,  would  sing  to  me, 
With  the  deep  voice  of  the  empurpled  sea. 

Surely  to-day 

No  whim  of  mine  would  turn  his  heart  away, 

No  senseless  act  or  speech,  do  what  I  may. 

And  to  myself  I  say, 

My  love  to  him  was  given,  my  heart,  unshriven, 

At  his  dear  feet  I  lay. 

My  heart  is  flame, 

A  tempest  heat  no  ice  on  earth  can  tame, 

I  cry  "  I  was  to  blame  !    I  was  to  blame  !  " 


THE   LAY  OF  PRINCE  MARVAN 


In  praise  of  his  hermit  liff.  A  reply  to  his  brother,  King 
Guaire,  of  Connaught,  when  asked  by  him  why  he  did 
not  dwell  in  the  Palace. 


King  Gi 


died  662  ;  but  the  poem,  as  we  have  it,  is  of 
the  tenth  century. 


HERE   is   a   shieling   hidden   in   the 

wood 
Unknown  to  all  save  God  ; 

An    ancient  ash  -  tree 

and  a  hazel-bush 
Their  sheltering  shade 
afford. 

Around  the  doorway's 
heather-laden  porch 
Wild     honeysuckles 

twine ; 

Prolific  oaks,  within  the  forest's  gloom, 
Shed  mast  upon  fat  swine. 


126  EARLY   CHRISTIAN   POEMS 

Many  a  sweet  familiar  woodland  path 
Comes  winding  to  my  door  ; 

Lowly  and  humble  is  my  hermitage, 
Poor,  and  yet  not  too  poor. 


From  the  high  gable-end  my  lady's  throat 

Her  trilling  chant  outpours, 
Her  sombre  mantle,  like  the  ousel's  coat, 

Shows  dark  above  my  doors. 


From  the  high  oakridge  where  the  roe-deer  leaps 

The  river-banks  between, 
Renowned  Mucraime  and  Red  Roigne's  plains 

Lie  wrapped  in  robes  of  green. 


Here  in  the  silence,  where  no  care  intrudes, 

I  dwell  at  peace  with  God  ; 
What  gift  like  this  hast  thou  to  give,  Prince  Guain 

Were  I  to  roam  abroad  ? 


The  heavy  branches  of  the  green-barked  yew 

That  seem  to  bear  the  sky  ; 
The  spreading  oak,  that  shields  me  from  the  storm, 

When  winds  rise  high. 


Like  a  great  hostel,  welcoming  to  all, 

My  laden  apple-tree ; 
Low  in  the  hedge,  the  modest  hazel-bush 

Drops  ripest  nuts  for  me. 


THE  LAY  OF   PRINCE   MARVAN        127 

Round  the  pure  spring,  that  rises  crystal  clear, 

Straight  from  the  rock, 
Wild  goats  and  swine,  red  fox,  and  grazing  deer, 

At  sundown  flock. 


The  host  of  forest-dwellers  of  the  soil 

Trysting  at  night ; 
To  meet  them  foxes  come,  a  peaceful  troop, 

For  my  delight. 


Like  exiled  princes,  flocking  to  their  home, 

They  gather  round  ; 
Beneath  the  river  bank  great  salmon  leap, 

And  trout  abound. 


Rich  rowan  clusters,  and  the  dusky  sloe, 

The  bitter,  dark  blackthorn, 
Ripe  whortle-berries,  nuts  of  amber  hue, 

The  cup-enclosed  acorn. 


A  clutch  of  eggs,  sweet  honey,  mead  and  ale, 

God's  goodness  still  bestows  ; 
Red  apples,  and  the  fruitage  of  the  heath, 

His  constant  mercy  shows. 

The  goodly  tangle  of  the  briar-trail 

Climbs  over  all  the  hedge  ; 
Far  out  of  sight,  the  trembling  waters  wail 

Through  rustling  rush  and  sedge. 


128  EARLY   CHRISTIAN   POEMS 

Luxuriant  summer  spreads  its  coloured  cloak 

And  covers  all  the  land  ; 
Bright  blue-bells,  sunk  in  woods  of  russet  oak, 

Their  blooms  expand. 

The  movements  of  the  bright  red-breasted  men, 

A  lovely  melody ! 
Above  my  house,  the  thrush  and  cuckoo's  strain 

A  chorus  wakes  for  me. 

The  little  music-makers  of  the  world 

Chafers  and  bees, 
Drone  answer  to  the  tumbling  torrent's  roar 

Beneath  the  trees. 

From  gable-ends,  from  every  branch  and  stem, 

Sounds  sweetest  music  now  ; 
Unseen,  in  restless  flight,  the  lively  wren 

Flits  'neath  the  hazel-bough. 

Deep  in  the  firmament  the  sea-gulls  fly, 

One  widely-circling  wreath ; 
The  cheerful  cuckoo's  call,  the  poult's  reply, 

Sound  o'er  the  distant  heath. 

The  lowing  of  the  calves  in  summer-time, 

Best  season  of  the  year  ! 
Across  the  fertile  plain,  pleasant  the  sound, 

Their  call  I  hear. 

Voice  of  the  wind  against  the  branchy  wood 

Upon  the  deep  blue  sky  ; 
Most  musical  the  ceaseless  waterfall, 

The  swan's  shrill  cry. 


THE  LAY  OF  PRINCE  MARVAN          129 

No  hired  chorus,  trained  to  praise  its  chief, 

Comes  welling  up  for  me  ; 
The  music  made  for  Christ  the  Ever-young, 

Sounds  forth  without  a  fee. 

Though  great  thy  wealth,  Prince  Guaire,  happier  live 

Those  who  can  boast  no  hoard  ; 
Who  take  at  Christ's  hand  that  which  He  doth  give 

As  their  award. 

Far  from  life's  tumult  and  the  din  of  strife 

I  dwell  with  Him  in  peace, 
Content  and  grateful,  for  Thy  gifts,  High  Prince, 

Daily  increase. 

(GUAIRE  replies) 

Wisely  thou  choosest,  Marvan ;   I  a  king 

Would  lay  my  kingdom  by, 
With  Colman's  glorious  heritage  I'd  part 

To  bear  thee  company  1 


THE  SONG  OF  CREDE,  DAUGHTER 
OF  GUARE 

(In  the  battle  of  Aidne,  Crede,  the  daughter  of  King 
Guare  of  Aidne,  beheld  Dinertach  of  the  HyFidgenti, 
who  had  come  to  the  help  of  Guare,  with  seventeen 
wounds  upon  his  breast.  Then  she  fell  in  love  with 
him.  He  died  and  was  buried  in  the  cemetery  of 
Colman's  Church.) 

THESE  are  the  arrows  that  murder  sleep 
At  every  hour  in  the  night's  black  deep  ; 
Pangs  of  Love  through  the  long  day  ache, 
All  for  the  dead  Dinertach's  sake. 

Great  love  of  a  hero  from  Roiny's  plain 
Has  pierced  me  through  with  immortal  pain, 
Blasted  my  beauty  and  left  me  to  blanch 
A  riven  bloom  on  a  restless  branch. 

Never  was  song  like  Dinertach's  speech 
But  holy  strains  that  to  Heaven's  gate  reach ; 
A  front  of  flame  without  boast  or  pride, 
Yet  a  firm,  fond  mate  for  a  fair  maid's  side. 

A  growing  girl — I  was  timid  of  tongue, 
And  never  trysted  with  gallants  young, 
But  since  I  have  won  into  passionate  age, 
Fierce  love-longings  my  heart  engage. 


THE   SONG  OF  CREDE  131 

I  have  every  bounty  that  life  could  hold, 
With  Guare,  arch-monarch  of  Aidne  cold, 
But,  fallen  away  from  my  haughty  folk, 
In  Irluachair's  field  my  heart  lies  broke. 

There  is  chanting  in  glorious  Aidne's  meadow, 
Under  St.  Colman's  Church's  shadow  ; 
A  hero  flame  sinks  into  the  tomb — 
Dinertach,  alas  my  love  and  my  doom  ! 

Chaste  Christ !  that  now  at  my  life's  last  breath 
I  should  tryst  with  Sorrow  and  mate  with  Death  ! 
At  every  hour  of  the  night's  black  deep, 
These  are  the  arrows  that  murder  sleep. 

ALFRED  PERCEVAL  GRAVES. 


THE   STUDENT  AND   HIS  CAT 

The  Irish  of  this  playful  poem  was  written  by  a  student  of  the 
Monastery  of  Carinthia  on  a  copy  of  St.  Paul's  Epistles  about  the 
close  of  the  eighth  century. 

I  AND  Pangur  Ban,  my  cat, 
'Tis  a  like  task  we  are  at ; 
Hunting  mice  is  his  delight, 
Hunting  words  I  sit  all  night. 

Better  far  than  praise  of  men 
'Tis  to  sit  with  book  and  pen  ; 
Pangur  bears  me  no  ill-will, 
He,  too,  plies  his  simple  skill. 

'Tis  a  merry  thing  to  see 
At  our  tasks  how  glad  are  we, 
When  at  home  we  sit  and  find 
Entertainment  to  our  mind. 

Oftentimes  a  mouse  will  stray 
In  the  hero  Pangur's  way  ; 
Oftentimes  my  keen  thought  set 
Takes  a  meaning  in  its  net. 


THE   STUDENT  AND   HIS   CAT        133 

'Gainst  the  wall  he  sets  his  eye 
Full  and  fierce  and  sharp  and  sly  ; 
'Gainst  the  wall  of  knowledge  I 
All  my  little  wisdom  try. 

When  a  mouse  darts  from  its  den, 
O  !  how  glad  is  Pangur  then  ; 

0  !  what  gladness  do  I  prove 
When  I  solve  the  doubts  I  love. 

So  in  peace  our  task  we  ply, 
Pangur  Ban,  my  cat,  and  I ; 
In  our  arts  we  find  our  bliss, 

1  have  mine,  and  he  has  his. 

Practice  every  day  has  made 
Pangur  perfect  in  his  trade  ; 
I  get  wisdom  day  and  night, 
Turning  darkness  into  light. 

ROBIN  FLOWER. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SEVEN 
ARCHANGELS 

Now,  Gabriel,  be  with  my  heart 
On  this  first  day  of  seven, 
He,  first  of  the  Archangels ; 
And  Thou,  High  King  of  Heaven. 

Michael  be  mine,  if  Monday  dawn, 
Michael  I  call  upon, 
There  is  none  like  thee,  Michael, 
None  but  Jesu,  Mary's  Son. 

And  oh  if  Tuesday  sorrow  bring, 
Let  Raphael  help  it  forth, 
One  of  the  seven  that  hears  us  weep, 
Sad  women  of  this  earth. 

And  Uriel  hear,  if  Wednesday  wake, 
In  his  nobility, 

And  heal  our  wounds  and  care  for  us 
And  calm  this  wind-torn  sea. 

And  Sariel,  should  Thursday  come 
With  wilder  wind  and  seas, 
On  Sariel  I  cry  aloud 
For  that  solace  which  is  his. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SEVEN  ARCHANGELS  135 

For  sorrow's  fast  on  Friday, 
Out  of  my  need  I  cry 
On  Rumiel,  my  heart's  near  friend, 
Though  Heaven  I  know  is  nigh. 

And  Saturday,  on  Panchel, 
While  this  yellow  world  is  mine, 
I  call  on  him  while  shake  the  leaves 
And  the  yellow  sun  doth  shine. 

The  Trinity  protect  me  still — 
Oh  blessed  Trinity, 
And  be  my  stay  in  danger's  hour  ; 
Protect  and  prosper  me. 

ERNEST  RHYS. 


THE  F&LIRE  OF  ADAMNAN 
Ancient  Irish  Litany 

Though  ascribed  to  St.  Adamnan,  Abbot  of  lona  (died  704),  the 
biographer  of  St.  Columba,  the  piece,  judging  by  its  language,  is 

AINTS  of  Four  Seasons  ! 
Saints  of  the  Year  ! 
Loving,  I  pray  to  you ;  longing,  I  say 

to  you  : 
Save    me    from    angers,   dreeings,  and 

dangers  ! 

Saints  of  Four  Seasons ! 
Saints  of  the  Year  ! 

Saints  of  Green  Springtime  ! 
Saints  of  the  Year  ! 

Patraic  and  Grighair,  Brig- 
hid  be  near ! 
My  last  breath  gather  with 

God's  Foster  Father ! 
Saints  of  Green  Springtime  ! 
Saints  of  the  Year ! 

Saints  of  Gold  Summer ! 
Saints  of  the  Year  ! 
(Poesy  wingeth  me  !     Fancy 

far  bringeth  me !) 
Guide  ye  me  on  to  Mary's 
Sweet  Son ! 


THE  F£ILIRE  OF  ADAMNAN       137 

Saints  of  Gold  Summer  ! 
Saints  of  the  Year  ! 

Saints  of  Red  Autumn ! 

Saints  of  the  Year  ! 
Lo  !   I  am  cheery  !   Michil  and  Mary 
Open  wide  Heaven  to  my  soul  bereaven  1 

Saints  of  Red  Autumn  ! 

Saints  of  the  Year  ! 

Saints  of  Grey  Winter 
Saints  of  the  Year  ! 

Outside  God's  Palace  fiends  wait  in  malice — 

Let  them  not  win  my  soul  going  in  ! 
Saints  of  Grey  Winter  ! 
Saints  of  the  Year  ! 

Saints  of  Four  Seasons  ! 

Saints  of  the  Year  ! 

Waking  or  sleeping,  to  my  grave  creeping, 
Life  in  its  Night,  hold  me  God's  light ! 

Saints  of  Four  Seasons  ! 

Saints  of  the  Year  ! 

P.  J.   McCALL. 


THE  FEATHERED  HERMIT 

BLACKBIRD,  who  pourest  praise, 

Deep  hidden  'neath  the  bough, 

No  bell  to  call  the  Hours 

Thou  needest,  thou ; 

Each  hour,  O  hermit,  from  thy  throat, 

Wells  thy  sweet,  soft,  peaceful  note. 


AN  APHORISM 

TIME  was,  I  was  not  here  ; 
Short  the  time  for  me,  I  fear  ! 
Death  comes,  that  is  clear  ; 
It  is  not  clear  when  death  is  near. 


.38 


THE   BLACKBIRD 

HIGH  trees  close  me  round 

Far  from  the  ground  the  blackbird  sings, 

Trilling,  it  chants  its  lay 

Above  my  well-lined  book  to-day. 

In  its  soft  veil  of  grey 

The  wayward  cuckoo  calls  aloud  ; 

Within  my  wall  of  green, 

My  God  shrouds  me,  all  unseen. 


DEUS  MEUS 

By  Mael-Isu  ("  Servant  of  Jesus  "),  of  Derry,  obit.  1038. 

Dtus  meus  adiuva  me, 
Give  me  thy  love,  O  Christ,  I  pray, 
Give  me  thy  love,  O  Christ,  I  pray, 
Deus  mtus  adiuva  me. 

In  meum  cor  ut  sanum  sit, 
Pour,  loving  King,  Thy  love  in  it, 
Pour,  loving  King,  Thy  love  in  it, 
In  meum  cor  ut  sanum  sit. 

Domine,  da  ut  peto  a  U, 
O,  pure  bright  sun,  give,  give  to-day, 
O,  pure  bright  sun,  give,  give  to-day, 
Domine,  da  ut  peto  a  te. 

Hanc  spero  rem  et  quaero  quam 
Thy  love  to  have  where'er  I  am, 
Thy  love  to  have  where'er  I  am, 
Hanc  spero  rem  et  quaero  quam. 

Tuum  amorem  sicut  uis, 
Give  to  me  swiftly,  strongly,  this, 
Give  to  me  swiftly,  strongly,  this, 
Tuum  amorem  sicut  uis. 


DEUS   MEUS  141 

Quaere,  postulo,  ptto  a  U, 
That  I  in  heaven,  dear  Christ,  may  stay, 
That  I  in  heaven,  dear  Christ,  may  stay, 
Quaero,  postulo,  -peto  a  te. 

Doming,  Doming,  txaudi  me, 
Fill  my  soul,  Lord,  with  Thy  love's  ray, 
Fill  my  soul,  Lord,  with  Thy  love's  ray, 
Doming,  Doming,  exaudi  me. 

Dgus  meus  adiuva  me, 

Deus  mgus  adiuva  me. 

GEORGE  SIGERSON. 


THE  SOUL'S   DESIRE 

(Author  and  date  unknown. ) 


T  were  my  soul's  desire 
To  see  the  face  of  God  ; 
It  were  my  soul's  desire 
To  rest  in  His  abode. 

It  were  my  soul's  desire 
To  study  zealously ; 
This,  too,  my  soul's  desire, 
A  clear  rule  set  for  me. 

It  were  my  soul's  desire 
A  spirit  free  from  gloom ; 
It  were  my  soul's  desire 
New  life  beyond  the  Doom. 

It  were  my  soul's  desire 
To  shun  the  chills  of  hell ; 
Yet  more  my  soul's  desire 
Within  His  house  to  dwell. 

It  were  my  soul's  desire 
To  imitate  my  King, 
It  were  my  soul's  desire 
His  ceaseless  praise  to  sing. 


THE   SOUL'S   DESIRE  143 

It  were  my  soul's  desire 
When  heaven's  gate  is  won 
To  find  my  soul's  desire 
Clear  shining  like  the  sun. 

Grant,  Lord,  my  soul's  desire, 
Deep  waves  of  cleansing  sighs ; 
Grant,  Lord,  my  soul's  desire 
From  earthly  cares  to  rise. 

This  still  my  soul's  desire 
Whatever  life  afford, — 
To  gain  my  soul's  desire 
And  see  Thy  face,  O  Lord 


TEMPEST  ON  THE  SEA 

The  original  of  the  following  poem  was  ascribed  to  Ruman 
mac  Colmain,  an  Irish  poet  of  the  seventh  century,  whom  the  Book 
ofLeinster  generously  styles  "  the  Homer  and  Virgil  of  Ireland." 
It  has  been  edited  and  exquisitely  translated  in  prose  by  Pro- 
fessor Kuno  Meyer  in  vol.  ii.  of  Otia  Merseiana.  He  attri- 
butes it  to  the  eleventh  century.  The  old  prose  account  says 
that  it  was  made  by  Ruman,  when  challenged  by  the  Danes  of 
Dublin  to  sing  of  the  sea. 

TEMPEST  on  the  great  sea-borders, 
Hear  my  tale,  ye  viking  sworders  ! 
Winter  smites  us,  wild  winds  crying 
Set  the  salty  billows  flying, 
Wind  and  winter,  fierce  marauders. 


Lir's  vast  host  of  shouting  water 

Comes  against  us,  charged  with  slaughter, 

None  can  tell  the  dread  and  wonder 

Speaking  in  the  ocean  thunder 

And  the  tempest,  thunder's  daughter. 

With  the  wind  of  east  at  morning 
All  the  waves'  wild  hearts  are  yearning 
Westward  over  wastes  of  ocean, 
Till  they  stay  their  eager  motion 
Where  the  setting  sun  is  burning. 
144 


TEMPEST  ON  THE  SEA  145 

When  the  northern  wind  comes  flying, 
All  the  press  of  dark  waves  crying, 
Southward  surge  and  clamour,  driven 
To  the  shining  southern  heaven, 
Wave  to  wave  in  song  replying. 


When  the  western  wind  is  blowing 
O'er  the  currents  wildly  flowing, 
Eastward  sets  its  mighty  longing 
And  the  waves  go  eastward  thronging 
Far  to  find  the  sun-tree  growing. 


When  the  southern  wind  comes  raining 
Over  shielded  Saxons  straining, 
Waves  round  Skiddy  isle  go  pouring, 
On  Caladnet's  beaches  roaring, 
In^grey  Shannon's  mouth  complaining. 


Full  the  sea  and  fierce  the  surges, 
Lovely  are  the  ocean  verges, 
On  the  showery  waters  whirling, 
Sandy  winds  are  swiftly  swirling, 
Rudders  cleave  the  surf  that  urges. 


Hard  round  Eire's  cliffs  and  nesses, 
Hard  the  strife,  not  soft  the  stresses, 
Like  swan-feathers  softly  sifting, 
Snow  o'er  Milidh's  folk  is  drifting, 
Manann's  wife  shakes  angry  tresses. 


146  EARLY   CHRISTIAN   POEMS 

At  the  mouth  of  each  dark  river 
Breaking  waters  surge  and  shiver, 
Wind  and  winter  met  together 
Trouble  Alba  with  wild  weather, 
Countless  falls  on  Dremon  quiver. 

Son  of  God,  great  Lord  of  wonder, 
Save  me  from  the  ravening  thunder, 
By  the  feast  before  Thy  dying, 
Save  me  from  the  tempest  crying 
And  from  Hell,  tempestuous  under. 

ROBIN  FLOWER. 


THE  OLD  WOMAN  OF  BEARE 

Eleventh  century  (?) 

EBBTIDE  to  me ! 

My  life  drifts  downward  with  the  drifting  sea  ; 
Old  age  has  caught  and  compassed  me  about, 
The  tides  of  time  run  out. 

The  "  Hag  of  Beare  !  " 

'Tis  thus  I  hear  the  young  girls  jeer  and  mock  ; 
Yet  I,  who  in  these  cast-off  clouts  appear, 
Once  donned  a  queenly  smock. 

Ye  love  but  self, 

Ye  churls !   to-day  ye  worship  pelf  ! 

But  in  the  days  I  lived  we  sought  for  men, 

We  loved  our  lovers  then  ! 

Ah !  swiftly  when 

Their  splendid  chariots  coursed  upon  the  plain, 
I  checked  their  pace,  for  me  they  flew  amain, 
Held  in  by  curb  and  rein. 

I  envy  not  the  old, 

Whom  gold  adorns,  whom  richest  robes  enfold, 
But  ah  !  the  girls,  who  pass  my  cell  at  morn, 
While  I  am  shorn  ! 


148  EARLY   CHRISTIAN   POEMS 

On  sweet  May-morn 

Their  ringing  laughter  on  the  breeze  is  borne, 
While  I,  who  shake  with  ague  and  with  age, 
In  Litanies  engage. 


Amen  !   and  woe  is  me  ! 
I  lie  here  rotting  like  a  broken  tree ; 
Each  acorn  has  its  day  and  needs  must  fall, 
Time  makes  an  end  of  all ! 


I  had  my  day  with  kings  ! 

We  drank  the  brimming  mead,  the  ruddy  wine, 

Where  now  I  drink  whey-water  ;  for  company  more  fine 

Than  shrivelled  hags,  hag  though  I  am,  I  pine. 

The  flood-tide  thine ! 

Mine  but  the  low  down-curling  ebb-tide's  flow, 
My  youth,  my  hope,  are  carried  from  my  hand, 
Thy  flood-tide  foams  to  land. 


My  body  drops 

Slowly  but  sure  towards  the  abode  we  know  ; 
When  God's  High  Son  takes  from  me  all  my  props 
It  will  be  time  to  go  ! 


Bony  my  arms  and  bare 

Could  you  but  see  them  'neath  the  mantle's  flap. 
Wizened  and  worn,  that  once  were  round  and  fair, 
When  kings  lay  in  my  lap. 


THE  OLD   WOMAN   OF   BEARE         149 

Tis,  "  O  my  God  "  with  me, 

Many  prayers  said,  yet  more  prayers  left  undone  ; 

If  I  could  spread  my  garment  in  the  sun 

I'd  say  them,  every  one. 


The  sea-wave  talks, 

Athwart  the  frozen  earth  grim  winter  stalks ; 
Young  Fermod,  son  of  Mugh,  ne'er  said  me  nay, 
Yet  he  comes  not  to-day. 


How  still  they  row, 

Oar  dipped  by  oar  the  wavering  reeds  among, 
To  Alma's  shore  they  press,  a  ghostly  throng, 
Deeply  they  sleep  and  long. 

No  lightsome  laugh 

Disturbs  my  fireside's  stillness ;  shadows  fall, 
And  quiet  forms  are  gathering  round  my  hearth, 
Yet  lies  the  hand  of  silence  on  them  all. 


I  do  not  deem  it  ill 

That  a  nun's  veil  should  rest  upon  my  head 
But  finer  far  my  feast-robe's  various  hue 
To  me,  when  all  is  said. 


My  very  cloak  grows  old ; 
Grey  is  its  tint,  its  woof  is  frayed  and  thin  ; 
I  seem  to  feel  grey  hairs  within  its  fold, 
Or  are  they  on  my  skin  ? 


ISO  EARLY  CHRISTIAN  POEMS 

0  happy  Isle  of  Ocean, 

Thy  flood-tide  leaps  to  meet  the  eddying  wave 
Lifting  it  up  and  onward.     Till  the  grave 
The  sea-wave  comes  not  after  ebb  for  me. 

1  find  them  not 

Those  sunny  sands  I  knew  so  well  of  yore  ; 
Only  the  surf's  sad  roar  sounds  up  to  me, 
My  tide  will  turn  no  more. 


GORMLIATH'S  LAMENT  FOR 
NIAL  BLACK-KNEE 

"A.D.  946.  Gormliatb,  daughter  of  Flann,  Queen  of  Nial 
Glundubh,  or  "  Black-knee,"  died  after  intense  penance  for  her  sins 
and  transgressions." — Annals  of  the  Four  Masters. 

MOVE,  O  Monk,  thy  foot  away  ! 
Lift  it  from  the  grave  of  Nial ! 
All  too  high  thou  heap'st  the  pile  ; 
All  too  deep  thou  diggest  the  clay. 

Brown-haired  Monk,  most  gentle  friend, 
Press  not  with  thy  foot  the  soil 
Nial  to  cover,  heavy  toil, 
Of  thy  labours  make  an  end. 

Mournful  priest,  thy  prayers  delay, 
Close  not  yet  the  prince's  tomb, 
Make  an  opening,  for  I  come  ; 
Move,  O  Monk,  thy  foot  away  ! 

Not  my  will  that  brought  thee  bound, 
Black-kneed  Nial,  with  heart  of  gold  ! 
When  mine  arms  his  form  enfold, 
Raise  his  stone,  and  smooth  his  mound. 


EARLY   CHRISTIAN   POEMS 

Gormliath  I,  a  Queen  commands, 
Daughter  of  King  Flann  the  brave  ; 
Press  not  then  upon  his  grave  ; 
Move,  O  Monk,  thy  foot  away  ! 


THE  MOTHER'S  LAMENT  AT  THE 
SLAUGHTER  OF  THE  INNOCENTS 

Then,  as  the  executioner  plucked  her  son  from  her 
breast,  one  of  the  women  said  : 

"  Why  are  you  tearing 
Away  to  his  doom, 
The  child  of  my  caring, 
The  fruit  of  my  womb. 
Till  nine  months  were  o'er 
His  burden  I  bore, 
Then  his  pretty  lips  pressed 
The  glad  milk  from  my  breast, 
And  my  whole  heart  he  filled, 
And  my  whole  life  he  thrilled. 

All  my  strength  dies, 

My  tongue  speechless  lies, 

Darkened  are  my  eyes ! 

His  breath  was  the  breath  of  me  ; 

His  death  is  the  death  of  me." 

Then  another  woman  said  : 

"  'Tis  my  own  son  that  from  me  you  wring, 
I  deceived  not  the  King. 


154  EARLY  CHRISTIAN   POEMS 

But  slay  me,  even  me, 
And  let  my  boy  be. 
A  mother  most  hapless, 
My  bosom  is  sapless, 
Mine  eyes  one  tearful  river, 
My  frame  one  fearful  shiver, 
My  husband  sonless  ever, 
And  I  a  sonless  wife 
To  live  a  death  in  life. 

O  my  son  !    O  God  of  Truth ! 

O  my  unrewarded  youth, 

O  my  birthless  sicknesses 

Until  doom  without  redress. 

O  my  bosom's  silent  nest, 

O  the  heart  broke  in  my  breast." 


Then  said  another  woman  : 

"  Murderers,  obeying 

Herod's  wicked  willing, 

One  ye  would  be  slaying, 

Many  are  ye  killing. 

Infants  would  ye  smother  ? 

Ruffian,  ye  have  rather 

Wounded  many  a  father, 

Slaughtered  many  a  mother. 
Hell's  black  jaws  your  horrid  deed  is  glutting, 
Heaven's  white  gate  against  your  black  souls  shutting. 

Ye  are  guilty  of  the  Great  Offence  ! 

Ye  have  spilled  the  blood  of  Innocence." 


THE  MOTHER'S  LAMENT  155 

And  yet  another  woman  said  : 

"  O  Lord  Christ,  come  to  me  ! 

Nay,  no  longer  tarry  ! 
With  my  son  home  to  Thee 

My  soul  quickly  carry. 
O  Mary  great,  O  Mary  mild, 

Of  God's  One  Son  the  Mother, 
What  shall  I  do  without  my  child  ? 

For  I  have  now  no  other. 
For  Thy  Son's  sake  my  son  they  slew, 

Those  murderers  inhuman ; 
My  sense  and  soul  they  slaughtered  too. 

I  am  but  a  crazy  woman. 
Yea,  after  that  most  piteous  slaughter, 
When  my  babe's  life  ran  out  like  water, 
The  heart  within  my  bosom  hath  become 
A  clot  of  blood  from  this  day  till  the  Doom  !  " 
ALFRED  PERCEVAL  GRAVES. 


CONSECRATION 

By    Murdoch    O'Daly,    called    Murdoch     "the    Scotchman 
(Muredach  Albanach),  on  account  of  his  affection  for  that  country ; 
born  in  Connaught  towards  the  close  of  the  twelfth  century. 

How  great  the  tale,  that  there  should  be, 
In  God's  Son's  heart,  a  place  for  me  ! 
That  on  a  sinner's  lips  like  mine, 
The  cross  of  Jesus  Christ  should  shine  ! 

Christ  Jesus,  bend  me  to  Thy  will, 
My  feet  to  urge,  my  griefs  to  still ; 
That  even  my  flesh  and  blood  may  be 
A  temple  sanctified  to  Thee. 

No  rest,  no  calm,  my  soul  may  win, 
Because  my  body  craves  to  sin, 
Till  Thou,  dear  Lord,  Thyself  impart 
Peace  to  my  head,  light  to  my  heart. 

May  consecration  come  from  far, 
Soft  shining  like  the  evening  star  ! 
My  toilsome  path  make  plain  to  me, 
Until  I  come  to  rest  in  Thee. 


TEACH   ME,  O   TRINITY 

By  the  same  Poet. 


EACH  me,  O  Trinity, 
All  men  sing  praise  to  Thee, 
Let  me  not  backward  be, 

Teach  me,  O  Trinity. 


Come  Thou  and  dwell 

with  me, 
•>.  Lord  of  the  holy  race ; 

Make  here  thy  resting- 
place, 

Hear  me,  O  Trinity. 


That  I  Thy  love  may  prove, 
Teach  Thou  my  heart  and  hand, 
Ever  at  Thy  command 
Swiftly  to  move. 


158  EARLY  CHRISTIAN   POEMS 

Like  to  a  rotting  tree 
Is  this  vile  heart  of  me  ; 
Let  me  Thy  healing  see, 
Help  me,  O  Trinity. 

Sinful,  beholding  Thee ; 
Yet  clean  from  theft  and  blood 
My  hands;  O  Son  of  God, 
For  Mary's  love,  answer  me. 

In  my  adversity 
No  great  man  stooped  to  me, 
No  good  man  pitied  me, 
God  ope'd  His  heart  to  me. 

Lied  I,  as  others  lie, 
They  deceived,  so  have  I, 
On  others'  lie  I  built  my  lie — 
Will  my  God  pass  this  by  ? 

Truth  art  Thou,  truth  I  crave, 
If  on  a  lie  I  rest,  I'm  lost ; 
My  vow  demands  my  uttermost 
Save,  Trinity,  O  save  ! 


THE  SHAVING  OF  MURDOCH 

When  be  and  Catbal  of  the  Red  Hand,  King  of  Connavght, 
entered  the  monastic  life  together. 

MURDOCH,  whet  thy  knife,  that  we  may  shave  our  crowns 

to  the  Great  King, 
Let  us  sweetly  give  our  vow,  and  the  hair  of  both  our 

heads  to  the  Trinity. 
I  will  shave  mine  to  Mary,  this  is  the  doing  of  a  true 

heart, 
To  Mary  shave  thou  these  locks,  well-formed,  soft-eyed 

man. 
Seldom  hast  thou  had,  handsome  man,  a  knife  on  thy 

hair  to  shave  it, 
Oftener  has  a  sweet,  soft  queen,  comb'd  her  hair  beside 

thee. 
Whenever  it  was  that  we  did  bathe,  with  Brian  of  the 

well-curled  locks, 
And  once  on  a  time  that  I  did  bathe,  at  the  well  of  the 

fair-haired  Boroimhe, 
I  strove  in  swimming  with  Ua  Chais,  on  the  cold  waters 

of  the  Fergus. 

When  he  came  ashore  from  the  stream,  Ua  Chais  and  I 
strove  in  a  race. 

139 


160  EARLY  CHRISTIAN   POEMS 

These  two  knives,  one  to  each,  were  given  us  by  Duncan 
Cairbreach, 

No  knives  of  knives  were  better ;   shave  gently  then, 
Murdoch. 

Whet  your  sword,  Cathal,  which  wins  the  fertile  Banva, 

Ne'er  was  thy  wrath  heard  without  fighting,  brave,  red- 
handed  Cathal, 

Preserve  our  shaved  heads  from  cold  and  from  heat, 
gentle  daughter  of  Joachim, 

Preserve  us  in  the  land  of  heat,  softest  branch,  Mary. 
STANDISH  HAYES  O'GRADY. 


EILEEN   AROON 

Carol  O'Daly,  early  thirteenth  century. 

"  COME,  love,  and  dwell  with  me, 

Eileen  aroon ; 
I'll  roam  the  world  with  thee, 

Eileen  aroon ! 
Down  to  Terawley  free, 
From  this  sad  house  we'll  flee, 
If  thou  wilt  wed  with  me, 

Eileen  aroon ! 


"  We'll  seek  a  home  of  peace, 

Eileen  aroon ; 
All  fear  and  doubt  shall  cease, 

Eileen  aroon. 
If  thou  wilt  seek  my  side, 
If  thou  wilt  be  my  bride, 
All  matters  not  beside, 
Eileen  aroon. 


"  Then,  wilt  thou  fly  or  stay, 
Eileen  aroon  ? 

Ah  !  do  not  say  me  nay, 

Come  to  me  soon." 

161 


i6z  EARLY   CHRISTIAN   POEMS 

"  I  come,  I  come  to  thee, 
Life  of  the  world  to  me, 
Nought  holds  me,  for  I  flee 
Thus  to  thy  home." 

"  Welcome  thy  steps  before, 

Eileen  aroon. 
Fling  wide  our  cottage  door, 

Eileen  aroon. 
Oh  !  welcome  evermore, 
My  darling  and  my  store, 
Thou  shalt  go  out  no  more, 
Eileen  aroon !  " 


POEMS  OF  THE   DARK   DAYS 


•  I  do  not  know  of  anything  under  the  sky 
That  is  friendly  or  favourable  to  the  Gael, 
But  only  the  sea  that  our  need  brings  us  to, 
Or  the  wind  that  blows  to  the  harbour 
The  ship  that  is  bearing  us  away  from  Ireland ; 
And  there  is  reason  that  these  are  reconciled  with  us, 
For  we  increase  the  sea  with  our  tears, 
And  the  wandering  wind  with  our  sighs." 

LADY  GREGORY. 


THE   DOWNFALL   OF  THE  GAEL 

By  O'Gnive,  bard  of  Shane  O'Neill,  circa  1560. 

Y  heart  is  in  woe, 

And  my   soul   deep    in 

trouble, — 

For  the  mighty  are  low, 
And     abased    are     the 
noble. 

The  Sons  of  the  Gael 
Are  in  exile  and  mourn- 
ing, 

Worn,  weary,  and  pale, 
As  spent    pilgrims    re- 
turning ; 

Or  men  who,  in  flight 

From  the  field  of  disaster, 
Beseech  the  black  night 
On  their  flight  to  fall  faster  ; 

Or  seamen  aghast 

When  their  planks  gape  asunder, 
And  the  waves  fierce  and  fast 

Tumble  through  in  hoarse  thunder  ; 
165 


166          POEMS   OF   THE   DARK   DAYS 

Or  men  whom  we  see 

That  have  got  their  death-omen — 
Such  wretches  are  we 

In  the  chains  of  our  foemen  1 


Our  courage  is  fear, 
Our  nobility  vileness, 

Our  hope  is  despair, 
And  our  comeliness  foulness. 


There  is  mist  on  our  heads, 
And  a  cloud  chill  and  hoary 

Of  black  sorrow  sheds 
An  eclipse  on  our  glory. 

From  Boyne  to  the  Linn 
Has  the  mandate  been  given, 

That  the  children  of  Finn 

From  their  country  be  driven. 

That  the  sons  of  the  king — 
Oh,  the  treason  and  malice  ! — 

Shall  no  more  ride  the  ring 
In  their  own  native  valleys  ; 

No  more  shall  repair 

Where  the  hill  foxes  tarry, 
Nor  forth  to  the  air 

Fling  the  hawk  at  her  quarry ; 


THE  DOWNFALL   OF   THE   GAEL          167 

For  the  plain  shall  be  broke 

By  the  share  of  the  stranger, 
And  the  stone-mason's  stroke 

Tell  the  woods  of  their  danger  ; 

The  green  hills  and  shore 

Be  with  white  keeps  disfigured, 
And  the  Moat  of  Rathmore 

Be  the  Saxon  churl's  haggard  ! 

The  land  of  the  lakes 

Shall  no  more  know  the  prospect 
Of  valleys  and  brakes — 

So  transform'd  is  her  aspect ! 


The  Gael  cannot  tell. 

In  the  uprooted  wild-wood 

And  red  ridgy  dell, 
The  old  nurse  of  his  childhood  ; 


The  nurse  of  his  youth 

Is  in  doubt  as  she  views  him, 
If  the  wan  wretch,  in  truth, 

Be  the  child  of  her  bosom. 


We  starve  by  the  board, 

And  we  thirst  amid  wassail — 

For  the  guest  is  the  lord, 
And  the  host  is  the  vassal ! 


i68          POEMS   OF   THE   DARK   DAYS 

Through,  the  woods  let  us  roam, 

Through  the  wastes  wild  and  barren  ; 

We  are  strangers  at  home  ! 
We  are  exiles  in  Erin  ! 

And  Erin's  a  bark 

O'er  the  wide  waters  driven  ! 
And  the  tempest  howls  dark, 

And  her  side  planks  are  riven  ! 

And  in  billows  of  might 

Swell  the  Saxon  before  her, — 

Unite,  oh,  unite  ! 
Or  the  billows  burst  o'er  her  ! 

SIK  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


ADDRESS  TO  BRIAN  O'ROURKE  "OF 
THE  BULWARKS"  TO  AROUSE 
HIM  AGAINST  THE  ENGLISH1 

By  his  bard,  Teig  Dall  O'Higgin,  about  1566. 

"  And  first  for  Owryrke  :  I  found  hym  the  proudest 
man  that  ever  I  delt  with  in  Irelande."  (Sir  Henry 
Sydney  to  the  Privy  Council,  from  Dublin,  1576.) 

"  THE  man  of  war  is  he  who  dwells  in  safety," 
A  well-worn  adage  that  shall  never  cease, 
Save  only  when  it  girdeth  on  its  armour 
May  many-wooded  Banba  hope  for  peace. 

Why  sit  ye  still  ?   the  Clans  of  valorous  Eoghan, 
The  Clans  of  Conn  and  Conor  round  you  stand  ; 
Do  ye  not  hear  the  troops  of  Saxon  England 
March  o'er  your  plains  and  trample  down  your  land  ? 

1  O'Rourke,  Prince  of  Brefney,  was  a  man  whom  Elizabeth  and 
her  representatives  in  Ireland  found  it  hard  to  tackle.  His  hand- 
some presence,  his  dignity  and  pride,  gave  rise  to  stories  of  his 
ascendency  over  Elizabeth  herself.  When  lying  prisoner  in  the 
Tower  of  London,  he  is  said  to  have  sent  to  ask  Elizabeth  the 
favour  of  being  hung,  if  hang  he  must,  with  a  gad  or  withe,  after 
his  country's  fashion,  a  request  which  Cox,  who  relates  the  story, 
says  was  doubtless  willingly  granted  him.  He  was  executed  in 
I597-  (Cox's  Hibemia  Anglicana,  ed.  1689,  p.  399 ;  cf.  Bacon's 
reference  to  the  story  in  his  essay  "  Of  Custom  and  Education.") 
169 


170          POEMS   OF   THE   DARK   DAYS 

Let  Brian,  son  of  Brian,  out  of  Brefney, 
Beware  the  sweetness  of  their  honeyed  tongue, 
Their  greed  and  need,  their  indigence  and  riches, 
Two-handed  spoil  from  Ireland's  sons  have  wrung. 

Let  Brian,  son  of  Brian,  son  of  Eoghan, 

Ponder  if  one  man  ever  came  away, — 

Who  put  his  trust  in  England's  perjured  honour, — 

Unscathed  by  guile,  unharmed  by  treachery  ? 


As  waters  rising  'neath  the  snows  of  winter, 
As  hamlets  flaming  from  one  secret  spark, 
So  shall  the  chiefs  of  Erinn  rally  round  him, 
When  Brian's  star  arises  on  the  dark. 


Then  shall  wild  creatures  find  their  surest  covert 
Among  the  broken  homesteads  of  the  Pale  ; 
The  wolves'  deep  snarl  be  heard  beside  her  mansions, 
On  grass-green  Tara's  slopes  the  children's  wail. 

Where  once  arose  their  lightsome  lime-washed  dwellings, 
Where  once  were  precious  things  of  price  displayed, 
Be  thenceforth  whispered,  in  affrighted  accents, 
That  such  things  had  been,  ere  O'Rourke's  fierce  raid. 

By  him  be  felled  their  rich  fruit-bearing  orchards, 
Each  open  highway  clothed  with  ragged  weeds  ; 
Long  ere  the  harvest-hour  their  crops  be  scattered 
By  his  and  Connaught's  sons'  death-dealing  deeds. 


ADDRESS    TO   BRIAN   O'ROURKE        171 

Leave  hungry  famine  in  Boyne's  fertile  borders, 
Bir  of  the  spreading-boughs  bend  'neath  his  smart, 
So  that  a  mother  on  Meath's  richest  pastures 
Shall  munch  the  morsel  of  her  first  child's  heart. 

Right  up  to  Taillte's  very  walls  and  towers 

Their  villages  be  levelled  with  the  earth  ; 

Their  mills  and  kilns  and  haggarts  swept  before  them  ; 

Where  wealth  and  plenty  reigns,  dread  want  and  dearth. 

Smooth  into  desert  wastes  fair  Usna's  mountains, 
Pile  into  hills  each  widespread  pleasant  plain  ; 
So  that  a  wandering  man  may  seek  her  cities, 
So  he  may  search  her  high  cross-roads  in  vain. 

By  such  and  such  an  one  let  this  be  treasured 
(A  tale  of  wonder  for  the  passing  guest) 
That  on  the  plain  was  heard  a  heifer  lowing, 
A  tinkling  cow-bell  from  the  headland's  crest. 

Shrink  not,  O  desperate  band,  from  weapon- wounding, 
Stand  as  one  body,  man  by  brother  man  ; 
Had  but  the  clans  of  Erinn  cleaved  together 
Your  land  and  you  had  not  been  under  ban. 

Arouse  thee,  valiant  Brian  of  the  Bulwarks ! 
And  God  be  with  the  champions  of  the  Gael ! 
The  children  of  the  seed  of  Conn  and  Eoghan 
Stand  round  thee  ; — canst  thou  fail  ? 


O'HUSSEY'S  ODE  TO   THE  MAGUIRE 

Eochadh  O'Hosey  or  Hussey  was  bard  of  the  Maguires  of 
Fermanagh.  The  campaign  of  Hugh  Maguire,  celebrated  in  this 
poem,  was  undertaken  in  1599-1600  into  Munster. 

WHERE  is  my  chief,  my  master,  this  bleak  night,  mavrone  ? 
O  cold,  cold,  miserably  cold  is  this  bleak  night  for  Hugh  ! 
Its  showery,  arrowy,  speary  sleet  pierceth  one  thro'  and 

thro', 
Pierceth  one  to  the  very  bone. 

Rolls  real  thunder  ?     Or  was  that  red  vivid  light 

Only   a   meteor  ?     I    scarce   know ;     but   through    the 

midnight  dim 
The  pitiless   ice-wind   streams.     Except   the  hate   that 

persecutes  him, 
Nothing  hath  crueler  venomy  might. 

An  awful,  a  tremendous  night  is  this,  meseems  ! 

The  flood-gates  of  the  rivers  of  heaven,  I  think,  have 

been  burst  wide ; 
Down  from  the  overcharged  clouds,  like  to  headlong 

ocean's  tide, 

Descends  grey  rain  in  roaring  streams. 
172 


O'HUSSEY'S   ODE   TO   THE   MAGUIRE       173 

Tho'  he  were  even  a  wolf  ranging  the  round  green  woods, 
Tho'  he  were  even  a  pleasant  salmon  in  the  unchainable 

sea, 
Tho'  he  were  a  wild  mountain  eagle,  he  could  scarce 

bear,  he, 
This  sharp  sore  sleet,  these  howling  floods. 

O  mournful  is  my  soul  this  night  for  Hugh  Maguire ! 
Darkly  as  in  a  dream  he  strays.     Before  him  and  behind 
Triumphs  the  tyrannous  anger  of  the  wounding  wind, 
The  wounding  wind  that  burns  as  fire. 

It  is  my  bitter  grief,  it  cuts  me  to  the  heart 

That  in  the  country  of  Clan  Barry  this  should  be  his 

fate ! 
O   woe   is   me,   where   is   he  ?     Wandering,   houseless, 

desolate, 
Alone,  without  or  guide  or  chart ! 

Medreams  I  see  just  now  his  face,  the  strawberry-bright, 

Uplifted  to  the  blackened  heavens,  while  the  tem- 
pestuous winds 

Blow  fiercely  over  and  round  him,  and  the  smiting  sleet- 
shower  blinds 

The  hero  of  Galang  to-night ! 

Large,  large  affliction  unto  me  and  mine  it  is 
That  one  of  his  majestic  bearing,  his  fair  stately  form, 
Should  thus  be  tortured  and  o'erborne ;    that  this  un- 
sparing storm 
Should  wreak  its  wrath  on  head  like  his  ! 


174          POEMS   OF   THE   DARK   DAYS 

That  his  great  hand,  so  oft  the  avenger  of  the  oppressed, 
Should  this  chill  churlish  night,  perchance,  be  paralysed 

by  frost ; 
While  through  some  icicle-hung  thicket,  as  one  lorn  and 

lost, 
He  walks  and  wanders  without  rest. 

The  tempest-driven  torrent  deluges  the  mead, 
It  overflows  the  low  banks  of  the  rivulets  and  ponds  ; 
The  lawns  and  pasture-grounds  lie  locked  in  icy  bonds, 
So  that  the  cattle  cannot  feed. 

The  pale-bright  margins  of  the  streams  are  seen  by  none  ; 
Rushes  and  sweeps  along  the  untamable  flood  on  every 

side ; 
It  penetrates  and  fills  the  cottagers'  dwellings  far  and 

wide ; 
Water  and  land  are  blent  in  one. 


Through   some  dark   woods,    'mid    bones    of  monsters, 

Hugh  now  strays, 
As  he  confronts  the  storm  with  anguished  heart,  but 

manly  brow, 
O  what  a  sword-wound  to  that  tender  heart  of  his,  were 

now 
A  backward  glance  at  peaceful  days ! 

But  other  thoughts  are  his,  thoughts  that  can  still 
inspire 

With  joy  and  onward-bounding  hope  the  bosom  of  Mac- 
Nee; 


O'HUSSEY'S   ODE  TO  THE  MAGUIRE    175 

Thoughts  of  his  warriors  charging  like  bright  billows  of 

the  sea, 
Borne  on  the  wind's  wings,  flashing  fire  ! 

And  tho'  frost  glaze  to-night  the  clear  dew  of  his  eyes, 
And  white  ice-gauntlets  glove  his  noble  fine  fair  fingers 

o'er, 

A  warm  dress  is  to  him  that  lightening-garb  he  ever  wore, 
The  lightening  of  his  soul,  not  skies. 

Avran. 

Hugh  marched  forth  to  fight :    I  grieved  to  see  him  so 

depart. 
And   lo !    to-night    he  wanders   frozen,    rain-drenched, 

sad  betrayed ; 
But  the  memory  of  the  lime-white  mansions  his  right 

hand  hath  laid 
In  ashes,  warms  the  hero's  heart ! 

JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


A    LAMENT    FOR    THE    PRINCES    OF 
TYRONE    AND    TYRCONNEL 

Buried  in  San  Pietro  Montorio  at  Rome 

Addressed  to  Nuala,  the  O'Donnell's  sister,  by  Owen  Roe  mac 
an  Bhaird  (or  Ward),  the  family  Bard,  in  1608-9. 

WOMAN  of  the  piercing  wail, 

Who  mournest  o'er  yon 

mound  of  clay 
With  sigh  and  groan, 
Would  God  thou  wert 

among  the  Gael ! 
Thou  would'st  not  then 

from  day  to  day 
Weep  thus  alone. 
'Twere     long      before 

around  a  grave 
In    green    Tyrconnel, 

one  could  find 
This  loneliness ; 

Near  where  Beann-Boirche's  banners  wave, 
Such  grief  as  thine  could  ne'er  have  pined 
Companionless. 


A  LAMENT  177 

Beside  the  wave  in  Donegal, 

In  Antrim's  glens,  or  fair  Dromore, 

Or  Killilee, 

Or  where  the  sunny  waters  fall 

At  Assaroe,  near  Erna  shore, 

This  could  not  be. 

On  Derry's  plains,  in  rich  Drumcliff, 

Throughout  Armagh  the  Great,  renowned 

In  olden  years, 

No  day  could  pass  but  woman's  grief 

Would  rain  upon  the  burial-ground 

Fresh  floods  of  tears  ! 


O  no  ! — From  Shannon,  Boyne,  and  Suir, 

From  high  Dunluce's  castle-walls, 

From  Lissadill, 

Would  flock  alike  both  rich  and  poor  : 

One  wail  would  rise  from  Cruachan's  halls 

To  Tara  hill ; 

And  some  would  come  from  Barrow-side, 

And  many  a  maid  would  leave  her  home 

On  Leitrim's  plains, 

And  by  melodious  Banna's  tide, 

And  by  the  Mourne  and  Erne,  to  come 

And  swell  thy  strains  ! 

Oh,  horses'  hoofs  would  trample  down 

The  mount  whereon  the  martyr-saint 

Was  crucified ; 

From  glen  and  hill,  from  plain  and  town, 

One  loud  lament,  one  thrilling  plaint, 

Would  echo  wide. 

There  would  not  soon  be  found,  I  ween, 


1 78          POEMS   OF  THE   DARK   DAYS 

One  foot  of  ground  among  those  bands 

For  museful  thought, 

So  many  shriekers  of  the  keen 

Would  cry  aloud,  and  clap  their  hands, 

All  woe-distraught ! 


Two  princes  of  the  line  of  Conn 

Sleep  in  their  cells  of  clay  beside 

O'Donnell  Roe : 

Three  royal  youths,  alas  !  are  gone, 

Who  lived  for  Erin's  weal,  but  died 

For  Erin's  woe. 

Ah,  could  the  men  of  Ireland  read 

The  names  those  noteless  burial-stones 

Display  to  view, 

Their  wounded  hearts  afresh  would  bleed, 

Their  tears  gush  forth  again,  their  groans 

Resound  anew ! 


The  youths  whose  relics  moulder  here 

Were  sprung  from  Hugh,  high  prince  and  lord 

Of  Aileach's  lands ; 

Thy  noble  brothers,  justly  dear, 

Thy  nephew,  long  to  be  deplored 

By  Ulster's  bands. 

Theirs  were  not  souls  wherein  dull  time 

Could  domicile  decay,  or  house 

Decrepitude ! 

They  passed  from  earth  ere  manhood's  prime, 

Ere  years  had  power  to  dim  their  brows, 

Or  chill  their  blood. 


A  LAMENT  179 

And  who  can  marvel  o'er  thy  grief, 
Or  who  can  blame  thy  flowing  tears, 
Who  knows  their  source  ? 
O'Donnell,  Dunnasava's  chief, 
Cut  off  amid  his  vernal  years, 
Lies  here  a  corse 

Beside  his  brother  Cathbar,  whom 
Tyrconnell  of  the  Helmets  mourns 
In  deep  despair : 

For  valour,  truth,  and  comely  bloom, 
For  all  that  greatens  and  adorns, 
A  peerless  pair. 

Oh,  had  these  twain,  and  he,  the  third, 

The  Lord  of  Mourne,  O'Niall's  son 

(Their  mate  in  death, 

A  prince  in  look,  in  deed,  and  word), 

Had  these  three  heroes  yielded  on 

The  field  their  breath, 

Oh,  had  they  fallen  on  Criffan's  plain, 

There  would  not  be  a  town  or  clan 

From  shore  to  sea, 

But  would  with  shrieks  bewail  the  slain, 

Or  chant  aloud  the  exulting  rann 

Of  jubilee ! 


What  do  I  say  ?    Ah,  woe  is  me  ! 

Already  we  bewail  in  vain 

Their  fatal  fall ! 

And  Erin,  once  the  great  and  free, 

Now  vainly  mourns  her  breakless  chain, 

And  iron  thrall. 


i8o          POEMS   OF  THE   DARK   DAYS 

Then,  daughter  of  O'Donnell,  dry 
Thine  overflowing  eyes,  and  turn 
Thy  heart  aside, 
For  Adam's  race  is  born  to  die, 
And  sternly  the  sepulchral  urn 
Mocks  human  pride. 

Look  not,  nor  sigh,  for  earthly  throne, 

Nor  place  thy  trust  in  arm  of  clay, 

But  on  thy  knees 

Uplift  thy  soul  to  God  alone, 

For  all  things  go  their  destined  way 

As  He  decrees. 

Embrace  the  faithful  crucifix, 

And  seek  the  path  of  pain  and  prayer 

Thy  Saviour  trod ; 

Nor  let  thy  spirit  intermix 

With  earthly  hope,  with  worldly  care, 

Its  groans  to  God  ! l 

And  Thou,  O  mighty  Lord  !   whose  ways 

Are  far  above  our  feeble  minds 

To  understand, 

Sustain  us  in  these  doleful  days, 

And  render  light  the  chain  that  binds 

Our  fallen  land ! 

1  The  literal  translation  of  this  stanza  runs  as  follows : — 
"For  God's  sake,  thy  weighty  sorrow  banish  away,  O  daughter 
of  O'Donnell !  Short  time  till  thou  in  self-same  guise  must  tread 
the  way  ;  the  same  path's  weariness  awaits  thee.  In  hand  of  clay 
put  not  thy  trust.  .  .  .  Think  on  the  cross  that  stands  beside  thee, 
and,  in  lieu  of  thy  vain  sorrowing,  from  oft"  the  sepulchre  lift  up 
thine  arm  and  bid  thy  grief  begone."  O'Grady's  Cat  of  MSS.  in 
the  Brit.  Mus.,  pp.  372-73. 


A  LAMENT  181 

Look  down  upon  our  dreary  state, 
And  thro'  the  ages  that  may  still 
Roll  sadly  on, 

Watch  Thou  o'er  hapless  Erin's  fate, 
And  shield  at  least  from  darker  ill 
The  blood  of  Conn  ! 

JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


THE  COUNTY  OF  MAYO 

Or  the  "  Lament  of  Thomas  Flavell,  or  Lavell,"  c.  1660. 

ON  the  deck  of  Patrick  Lynch's  boat  I  sat  in  woeful 

plight, 
Through  my  sighing  all  the  weary  day,  and  weeping  all 

the  night, 

Were  it  not  that  full  of  sorrow  from  my  people  forth  I  go, 
By  the  blessed  sun  !  'tis  royally  I'd  sing  thy  praise,  Mayo  ! 

When  I  dwelt  at  home  in  plenty,  and  my  gold  did  much 

abound, 
In  the  company  of  fair  young  maids  the  Spanish  ale  went 

round — 
'Tis  a  bitter  change  from  those  gay  days  that  now  I'm 

forced  to  go, 
And  must  leave  my  bones  in  Santa  Cruz,  far  from  my 

own  Mayo. 

They  are  altered  girls  in  Irrul  now  ;    '  tis  proud  they're 

grown  and  high, 
With  their  hair-bags  and  their  top-knots — for  I  pass  their 

buckles  by ; 

But  it's  little  now  I  heed  their  airs,  for  God  will  have  it  so, 
That  I  must  depart  for  foreign  lands,  and  leave  my  sweet 

Mayo. 


THE   COUNTY  OF   MAYO  183 

'Tis  my  grief  that  Patrick  Loughlin  is  not  Earl  of  Irrul 

still, 
And  that  Brian  Duff  no  longer  rules  as  Lord  upon  the 

hill; 
And  that  Colonel  Hugh  MacGrady  should  be  lying  dead 

and  low, 

And  I  sailing,  sailing  swiftly  from  the  county  of  Mayo. 

GEORGE  Fox.1 

1  Lady  Ferguson,  in  her  Life  of  her  husband,  says  that  he  was 
the  true  author  of  this  poem,  but  that  as  Fox  had  a  hand  in  it,  he 
allowed  it  to  be  attributed  to  him.  Sir  Samuel  dedicated  his 
poems  to  Fox  in  1880. 


THE   OUTLAW  OF  LOCH  LENE 


OH,  many  a  day  have  I  made  good  ale  in  the  glen, 

That  came  not  of  stream  or  malt — like  the  brewing  of 

men. 
My   bed  was   the   ground;    my    roof,    the   greenwood 

above, 
And  the  wealth  that  I  sought,  one  far  kind  glance  from 

my  love. 


Alas !   on  that  night  when  the  horses  I  drove  from  the 

field, 

That  I  was  not  near  from  terror  my  angel  to  shield. 
She  stretched  forth  her  arms — her  mantle  she  flung  to 

the  wind, 
And  swam  o'er  Loch  Lene  her  outlawed  lover  to  find. 


Oh  would   that   a   freezing,   sleet-winged   tempest   did 

sweep, 

And  I  and  my  love  were  alone,  far  off  on  the  deep  ! 
I'd  ask  not  a  ship,  or  a  bark,  or  pinnace,  to  save, — 
With  her  hand  round  my  waist  I'd  fear  not  the  wind 

or  the  wave. 

184 


THE  OUTLAW  OF  LOCH  LENE    185 

'Tis  down  by  the  lake  where  the  wild-tree  fringes  its 

sides 

The  maid  of  my  heart,  my  fair  one  of  Heaven  resides  ; 
I  think  as  at  eve  she  wanders  its  mazes  along, 
The  birds  go  to  sleep  by  the  sweet,  wild  twist  of   her 

song. 

JEREMIAH  JOSEPH  CALLANAN. 


THE  FLOWER  OF  NUT-BROWN  MAIDS 

Seventeenth  century. 

IF  thou  wilt  come  with  me  to  the  County  of  Leitrim, 

Flower  of  Nut-brown  Maids — 
Honey  of  bees  and  mead  to  the  beaker's  brim 

I'll  offer  thee,  Nut-brown  Maid. 
Where  the  pure  air  floats  o'er  the  swinging  boats  of  the 

strand, 
Under  the  white-topped  wave  that  laves  the  edge  of  the 

sand, 

There   without   fear   we   will   wander   together,   hand 
clasped  in  hand, 

Flower  of  Nut-brown  Maids. 

My  heart  never  gave  you  liking  or  love, 

Said  the  Flower  of  Nut-brown  Maids  ; 

Though  sweet  are  your  words,  there's  black  famine  above, 
Said  the  Flower  of  Nut-brown  Maids  ; 

Will  gentle  words  feed  me  when  need  and  grim  hunger 
come  by  ? 

Better  be  free  than  with  thee  to  the  woodlands  to  fly ; 

What  gain  to  us  both  if  together  we  famish  and  die  ? 
Wept  the  Flower  of  Nut-brown  Maids. 


THE  FLOWER  OF   NUT-BROWN   MAIDS    187 

I   saw  her   coming   towards   me  o'er  the  face  of  the 
mountain 

Like  a  star  glimmering  through  the  mist ; 
In  the  field  of  furze  where  the  slow  cows  were  browsing 

In  pledge  of  our  love  we  kissed  ; 
In  the  bend  of  the  hedge  where  the  tall  trees  play  with 

the  sun, 

I  wrote  her  the  lines  that  should  bind  us  for  ever  in  one  ; 
Had  you  a  right  to  deny  me  the  dues  I  had  won, 
O  Flower  of  Nut-brown  Maids  ? 

My  grief  and  my  torment  that  thou  art  not  here  with  me 
now, 

Flower  of  Nut-brown  Maids ! 
Alone,  all  alone,  it  matters  not  where  or  how, 

O  Flower  of  Nut-brown  Maids  ; 
On  a  slender  bed,  O  little  black  head,  strained  close  to 

thee, 

Or  a  heap  of  hay,  until  break  of  day,  it  were  one  to  me, 
Laughing  in  gladness  and  glee  together,  with  none  to  sec, 
My  Flower  of  Nut-brown  Maids. 


ROISlN   DUBH 

THERE'S  black  grief  on  the  plains,  and  a  mist  on  the 

hills; 

There  is  fury  on  the  mountains,  and  that  is  no  wonder  ; 
I  would  empty  the  wild  ocean  with  the  shell  of  an  egg, 
If  I  could  be  at  peace  with  thee,  my  Ros  geal  dubh. 

Long  is  the  course  I  travelled  from  yesterday  to  to-day, 
Without,  on  the  edge  of  the  hill,  lightly  bounding,  as 

I  know, 

I  leapt  Loch  Erne  to  find  her,  though  wide  was  the  flood, 
With  no  light  of  the  sun  to  guide  my  path,  but  the  Ros 

geal  dubh. 

If  thou  shouldst  go  to  the  Aonach  to  sell  thy  kine  and  stock, 
If  you  go,  see  that  you  stay  not  out  in  the  darkness  of 

the  night ; 

Put  bolts  upon  your  doors,  and  a  heavy  reliable  lock, 
Or,  in  faith,  the  priest  will  be  down  on  you,  on  my  Ros 

geal  dubh ! 

O  little  Rose,  sorrow  not,  nor  be  lamenting  now, 

There  is  pardon  from  the  Pope  for  thee,  sent  straight 

home  from  Rome, 

The  friars  are  coming  overseas,  across  the  heaving  wave, 
And  Spanish  wine  will  then  be  thine,  my  Ros  geal  dubh. 

188 


ROISfN   DUBH  189 

There  is  true  love  in  my  heart  for  thee  for  the  passing 

of  a  year, 
Love  tormenting,  love  lamenting,  heavy  love  that  wearies 

me, 
Love  that  left  me  without  health,  without  a  path,  gone 

all  astray, 
And  for  ever,  ever,  I  did  not  get  my  Ros  geal  dubh  ! 

I  would  walk  Munster  with  thee  and  the  winding  ways 

of  the  hills, 

In  hope  I  would  get  your  secret  and  a  share  of  your  love  ; 
O  fragrant  Branch,  I  have  known  it,  that  thou  hast  love 

for  me, 
The  flower -blossom  of  wise  women  is  my  Ros  geal  dubh. 

The  sea  will  be  red  floods,  and  the  skies  like  blood, 
Blood-red  in  war  the  world  will  show  on  the  ridges  of 

the  hills  ; 
The  mountain  glens  through  Erinn  and  the  brown  bogs 

will  be  quaking 
Before  the  day  she  sinks  in  death,  my  Ros  geal  dubh  !  1 

1  Ros  geal  dubh  means  the  "Fair-dark  Rose,"  here  used  as  a 
love-title  for  Ireland;  Raisin  Dubh  means  "  Little  black  or  dark 
Rose."  The  above  is  a  literal  translation  of  the  Irish  poem  upon 
which  Mangan's  ' '  Dark  Rosaleen "  was  formed.  The  opening 
quatrain  is  found  in  Petrie's  Ancient  Music  of  Ireland,  but  not 
in  O' Daly's  collection. 


MY   DARK   ROSALEEN 

MY  dark  Rosaleen, 

Do    not    sigh,    do   not 

weep  ! 
The  priests  are  on  the 

ocean  green, 
They  march  along  the 

deep. 
There's  wine  from  the 

royal  Pope 

Upon  the  ocean  green  ; 
And   Spanish   ale    shall 

give  you  hope, 
My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 
My  own  Rosaleen  1 
Shall  glad  your  heart,  shall  give  you  hope, 
Shall  give  you  health,  and  help,  and  hope, 
My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

Over  hills  and  thro'  dales, 
Have  I  roamed  for  your  sake  ; 
All  yesterday  I  sailed  with  sails 
On  river  and  on  lake. 
The  Erne  at  its  highest  flood 
I  dashed  across  unseen, 


MY  DARK  ROSALEEN  191 

For  there  was  lightning  in  my  blood, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

My  own  Rosaleen ! 

O  there  was  lightning  in  my  blood, 

Red  lightning  lightened  thro'  my  blood, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 


All  day  long,  in  unrest, 

To  and  fro,  do  I  move. 

The  very  soul  within  my  breast 

Is  wasted  for  you,  love  ! 

The  heart  in  my  bosom  faints 

To  think  of  you,  my  queen, 

My  life  of  life,  my  saint  of  saints, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 

To  hear  your  sweet  and  sad  complaints, 

My  life,  my  love,  my  saint  of  saints, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

Woe  and  pain,  pain  and  woe, 

Are  my  lot,  night  and  noon, 

To  see  your  bright  face  clouded  so, 

Like  to  the  mournful  moon. 

But  yet  will  I  rear  your  throne 

Again  in  golden  sheen  ; 

'Tis  you  shall  reign,  shall  reign  alone, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen ! 

'Tis  you  shall  have  the  golden  throne, 

'Tis  you  shall  reign,  and  reign  alone, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 


i92          POEMS   OF  THE   DARK   DAYS 

Over  dews,  over  sands, 

Will  I  fly  for  your  weal : 

Your  holy  delicate  white  hands 

Shall  girdle  me  with  steel. 

At  home  in  your  emerald  bowers, 

From  morning's  dawn  till  e'en, 

You'll  pray  for  me,  my  flower  of  flowers, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  fond  Rosaleen ! 

You'll  think  of  me  thro'  daylight  hours, 

My  virgin  flower,  my  flower  of  flowers, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

I  could  scale  the  blue  air, 

I  could  plough  the  high  hills, 

O  I  could  kneel  all  night  in  prayer, 

To  heal  your  many  ills  ! 

And  one  beamy  smile  from  you 

Would  float  like  light  between 

My  toils  and  me,  my  own,  my  true, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

My  fond  Rosaleen ! 

Would  give  me  life  and  soul  anew, 

A  second  life,  a  soul  anew, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

O  the  Erne  shall  run  red 

With  redundance  of  blood, 

The  earth  shall  rock  beneath  our  tread, 

And  flames  wrap  hill  and  wood, 

And  gun-peal  and  slogan-cry 

Wake  many  a  glen  serene, 


MY  DARK  ROSALEEN  193 

Ere  you  shall  fade,  ere  you  shall  die, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen ! 

The  Judgment  Hour  must  first  be  nigh, 

Ere  you  can  fade,  ere  you  can  die, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


THE  FAIR   HILLS  OF  EIRE 

Donnchad  Ruadh  MacNamara,  about  1730. 

TAKE  my  heart's  blessing  over  to  dear  Eire's  strand — 

Fair  Hills  of  Eire  O  ! 
To  the  Remnant  that  love  her — our  Forefathers'  land  ! 

Fair  Hills  of  Eire  O  ! 

How  sweet  sing  the  birds,  o'er  mount  there  and  vale, 
Like  soft  sounding  chords,  that  lament  for  the  Gael, — 
And  I,  o'er  the  surge,  far,  far  away  must  wail 

The  Fair  Hills  of  Eire  O  ! 

How  fair  are  the  flow'rs  on  the  dear  daring  peaks, 

Fair  Hills  of  Eire  O  ! 
Far  o'er  foreign  bowers  I  love  her  barest  reeks, 

Fair  Hills  of  Eire  O  ! 

Triumphant  her  trees,  that  rise  on  ev'ry  height, 
Bloom-kissed,  the  breeze  comes  odorous  and  bright, 
The  love  of  my  heart ! — O  my  very  soul's  delight ! 
The  Fair  Hills  of  Eire  O  1 

Still  numerous  and  noble  her  sons  who  survive, 

Fair  Hills  of  Eire  O  ! 
The  true  hearts  in  trouble,  the  strong  hands  to  strive — 

Fair  Hills  of  Eire  O  ! 
Ah,  'tis  this  makes  my  grief,  my  wounding  and  my  woe, 


THE   FAIR  HILLS   OF   EIRE  195 

To  think  that  each  chief  is  now  a  vassal  low, 
And  my  Country  divided  amongst  the  Foreign  Foe — 
The  Fair  Hills  of  Eire  O  ! 

In  purple  they  gleam,  like  our  High  Kings  of  yore, 

The  Fair  Hills  of  Eire  O  ! 
With  honey  and  cream  are  her  plains  flowing  o'er, 

Fair  Hills  of  Eire  O ! 

Once  more  I  will  come,  or  my  very  life  shall  fail, 
To  the  heart-haunted  home  of  the  ever-faithful  Gael, 
Than  King's  boon  more  welcome  the  swift  swelling  sail 

For  the  Fair  Hills  of  Eire  O  ! 

The  dewdrops  sparkle,  like  diamonds  on  the  corn, 

Fair  Hills  of  Eire  O  ! 
Where  green  boughs  darkle  the  bright  apples  burn 

Fair  Hills  of  Eire  O  ! 

Behold,  in  the  valley,  cress  and  berries  bland, 
Where  streams  love  to  dally,  in  that  Wondrous  Land, 
Where  the  great  River-voices  roll  in  music  grand 

Round  the  Fair  Hills  of  Eire  O  ! 

O,  'tis  welcoming,  wide-hearted,  that  dear  land  of  love  ! 

Fair  Hills  of  Eire  O ! 
New  life  unto  the  martyred  is  the  pure  breeze  above 

The  Fair  Hills  of  Eire  O ! 

More  sweet  than  tune  flowing  o'er  the  chords  of  gold 
Comes  the  kine's  soft  lowing  from  the  mountain  fold, — 
O,  the  Splendour  of  the  Sunshine  on  them  all,  Young  and 
Old, 

'Mid  the  Fair  Hills  of  Eire  O  ! 

GEORGE  SIGEESON. 


SHULE    AROON 

A  Brigade  Ballad 

Sir  Charles  Gavan  Duffy  says  that  the  date  of  this  ballad  is  not 
positively  known,  but  it  appears  to  be  early  in  the  eighteenth 
century,  when  the  flower  of  the  Catholic  youth  of  Ireland  were 
drawn  away  to  recruit  the  ranks  of  the  Irish  Brigade  abroad.  It 
is  accompanied  by  an  air  of  deep  sentiment  and  touching  sim- 
plicity.— Ballad  Poetry  of  Ireland. 

I  WOULD  I  were  on  yonder  hill, 

'Tis  there  I'd  sit  and  cry  my  fill, 

And  every  tear  would  turn  a  mill, 

Is  go  d-teidh  tu,  a  mhurnin,  slan  ! 

Siubhail,  siubhail,  siubhail,  a  ruin  ! 
Siubhail  go  socair,  agus  siubhail  go  ciuin, 
Siubhail  go  d-ti  an  doras  agus  eulaigh  Horn, 
Is  go  d-teidh  tu,  a  mhurnin,  slan  I l 


I'll  sell  my  rock,  I'll  sell  my  reel, 
I'll  sell  my  only  spinning-wheel, 
To  buy  for  my  love  a  sword  of  steel, 
Is  go  d-teidh  tu,  a  mhurnin,  slan  ! 

Siubhail,  siubhail,  siubhail  a  ruin  !  &c. 

Dr.  Sigerson  renders  the  chorus  in  English  verse,  as  follows : 
"  Come,  come,  come,  O  Love  1 
Quickly  come  to  me,  softly  move  ; 
Come  to  the  door,  and  away  we'll  flee, 
And  safe  for  aye  may  my  darling  be  !  " 
196 


SHULE  AROON  197 

I'll  dye  my  petticoats,  I'll  dye  them  red, 
And  round  the  world  I'll  beg  my  bread, 
Until  my  parents  shall  wish  me  dead, 
Is  go  d-Uidh  tu,  a  mhurnin,  slan  ! 

Siubhail,  siubhail,  siubhail,  a  ruin  f  &c. 

I  wish,  I  wish,  I  wish  in  vain, 
I  wish  I  had  my  heart  again, 
And  vainly  think  I'd  not  complain, 
Is  go  d-teidh  tu,  a  mhurnin,  slan  ! 

Siubhail,  siubhail,  siubhail,  a  ruin  !  &c. 

But  now  my  love  has  gone  to  France, 

To  try  his  fortune  to  advance  ; 

If  he  e'er  come  back,  'tis  but  a  chance, 

Is  go  d-teidh  tu,  a  mhurnin,  slan  ! 

Siubhail,  siubhail,  siubhail,  a  ruin  ! 
Siubhail  go  socair,  agus  siubhail  go  ciuin, 
Siubhail  go  d-ti  an  dor  as  agus  culaigh  Horn, 
Is  go  d-teidh  tu,  a  mhurnin,  ilan  ! 


LOVE'S  DESPAIR 

Dermot  O'Curnan,  born  1740. 

I  AM  desolate, 

Bereft  by  bitter  fate  ; 
No  cure  beneath  the  skies  can  save  me, 

No  cure  on  sea  or  strand, 

Nor  in  any  human  hand — 
But  hers,  this  paining  wound  who  gave  me. 

I  know  not  night  from  day, 

Nor  thrush  from  cuckoo  gray, 
Nor  cloud  from  the  sun  that  shines  above  thce — 

Nor  freezing  cold  from  heat, 

Nor  friend — if  friend  I  meet — 
I  but  know — heart's  love  ! — I  love  thee. 

Love  that  my  Life  began, 

Love,  that  will  close  life's  span, 
Love  that  grows  ever  by  love-giving : 

Love,  from  the  first  to  last, 

Love,  till  all  life  be  passed, 
Love  that  loves  on  after  living  ! 

This  love  I  gave  to  thee, 
For  pain  love  has  given  me, 

108 


LOVE'S  DESPAIR  199 

Love  that  can  fail  or  falter  never — 

But,  spite  of  earth  above, 

Guards  thee,  my  Flower  of  love, 
Thou  marvel-maid  of  life  for  ever. 

Bear  all  things  evidence, 

Thou  art  my  very  sense, 
My  past,  my  present,  and  my  morrow  ! 

All  else  on  earth  is  crossed, 

All  in  the  world  is  lost — 
Lost  all — but  the  great  love-gift  of  sorrow. 

My  life  not  life,  but  death  ; 

My  voice  not  voice — a  breath  ; 
No  sleep,  no  quiet — thinking  ever 

On  thy  fair  phantom  face, 

Queen  eyes  and  royal  grace, 
Lost  loveliness  that  leaves  me  never. 

I  pray  thee  grant  but  this — 

From  thy  dear  mouth  one  kiss, 
That  the  pang  of  death-despair  pass  over  : 

Or  bid  make  ready  nigh 

The  place  where  I  shall  lie, 
For  aye,  thy  leal  and  silent  lover. 

GEORGE  SIGERSON. 


THE  CRUISKEEN  LAWN 


SONS  of  noble  Erinn, 

I've     tidings    of    high 

daring 
To  brighten  now  your 

faces  pale  and  wan  : 
Then    hearken,    gather 

nearer, 

In  Gaelic  ringing  clearer, 
We'll  pledge  them  in  a 

cruiskeen  Ian,  Ian,  Ian, 
We'll  pledge  them  in  a 

cruiskeen  Ian ! 
Olfameed  an  cruiskeen, 
Slainte    gal    mo    vuir- 

neen  ! 1 
In  motion,  over  ocean,  slan,  slan,  slan  ! 

In  exile  dark  and  dreary, 
Wandering  far  and  weary, 

With  friends  that  never  failed,  I  have  gone, 

1  ».«.  "  Let  us  drink  the  cruiskeen  ('  little  jug ') ;  fair  health  to 
my  darling  I " 


THE  CRUISKEEN   LAWN  201 

The  trusted  and  true-hearted, 
Would  God  we'd  never  parted, 

Our  brothers,  boys,  a  cruiskeen  Ian,  Ian,  Ian ! 

Our  heroes  in  a  cruiskeen  Ian. 

Heav'n  speed  them  over  ocean, 
With  breeze  of  rapid  motion, 

The  ships  that  King  Charles  sails  upon  ; 
With  troops  the  frank  and  fearless, 
To  win  our  Freedom  peerless, 

Our  Freedom,  boys,  a  cruiskeen  Ian,  Ian,  Ian  ! 

Our  Freedom,  in  a  cruiskeen  Ian  ! 

Young  men  who  now  are  sharing 
The  toast  we  raise  to  Erinn, 

With  hope  that  the  King  is  coming  on, 
Grasp  your  guns  and  lances 
For  swift  his  host  advances, 

We'll  toast  them  in  a  cruiskeen  Ian,  Ian,  Ian ! 

We'll  toast  them  in  a  cruiskeen  Ian  ! 

The  tribe  who  would  destroy  all 
Our  rightful  princes  royal 

Shall  hence  end  their  rule  and  begone  ; 
The  Gael  shall  live  in  gladness, 
And  banished  be  all  sadness. 

To  that  time,  then,  a  cruiskeen  Ian,  Ian,  Ian  ! 
That  time,  boys,  a  cruiskeen  Ian  ! 
Olfameed  an  cruiskeen, 
Slainte  gal  mo  vuirneen, 
In  motion,  over  ocean,  slan,  slan,  slan ! 

GEORGE  SIGERSON. 


EAMONN   AN   CHNUIC,   OR   "NED 
OF  THE   HILL" 

The  Outlaw's  Song 

"  WHO  is  that  without 

With  voice  like  a  sword, 
That  batters  my  bolted  door  ?  " 

"  I  am  Eamonn  an  Chnuic, 

Cold,  weary,  and  wet 
From  long  walking  mountains  and  glens." 

"  O  dear  and  bright  love, 

What  would  I  do  for  you 
But  cover  you  with  a  skirt  of  my  dress. 

For  shots  full  thick 

Are  raining  on  you, 
And  together  we  may  be  slaughtered  !  " 

"  Long  am  I  out 

Under  snow,  under  frost, 
Without  comradeship  with  any  ; 

My  team  unyoked, 

My  fallow  unsown, 
And  they  lost  to  me  entirely  ; 

Friend  I  have  none 

(I  am  heavy  for  that) 


EAMONN    AN   CHNUIC  203 

That  would  harbour  me  late  or  early  ; 

And  so  I  must  go 

East  over  the  sea, 
Since  'tis  there  I  have  no  kindred  !  " 

P.  H.  PEARSE. 


O  DRUIMIN  DONN  DILISH 

"  O  DRUIMIN  donn  dilish,1 
True  Flower  of  the  Kine, 
Say,  where  art  thou  hiding, 
Sad  Mother  of  mine  ?  " 
"  I  lurk  in  the  wild  wood, 
No  human  ear  hears 
(Save  my  brave  lads  around  me) 
My  fast-falling  tears. 

"  Gone  my  broad  lands  and  homesteads, 

My  music  and  wine, 

No  chieftains  attend  me 

No  hostings  are  mine. 

Stale  bread  and  cold  water 

The  whole  of  my  hoard, 

While  the  warm  wine  flows  freely 

Round  the  enemy's  board." 

"  Could  we  utter  our  minds 
To  those  smart  English  rogues, 

i  A  poetic  name  for  Ireland;    druimfhionn  donn  dlleas,  lit. 
the  beloved  white-backed  dun  cow," 


O  DRUIMIN   BONN   DILISH  205 

We  would  beat  them  as  soundly 

As  we  beat  our  old  brogues  ! 

We  would  whip  them  through  thorns 

On  a  damp,  foggy  day, 

O'er  the  cliffs,  my  Donn  dilish, 

We  would  chase  them  away  '  " 


DO  YOU   REMEMBER  THAT  NIGHT? 


O  you  remember  that  night 

When  you  were  at  the  window, 
With  neither  hat  nor  gloves 
Nor  coat  to  shelter  you  ? 
I  reached  out  my  hand  to  you, 
And  you  ardently  grasped  it, 
I  remained  to  converse  with  you 
Until  the  lark  began  to  sing. 

Do  you  remember  that  night 
That  you  and  I  were 
At  the  foot  of  the  rowan-tree, 
And  the  night  drifting  snow  ? 
Your  head  on  my  breast, 
And  your  pipe  sweetly  playing  ? 
Little  thought  I  that  night 
That  our  love  ties  would  loosen ! 


Beloved  of  my  inmost  heart, 
Come  some  night,  and  soon, 
When  my  people  are  at  rest, 
That  we  may  talk  together. 
My  arms  shall  encircle  you 
While  I  relate  my  sad  tale, 


DO  YOU  REMEMBER  THAT    NIGHT?    207 

That  your  soft,  pleasant  converse 
Hath  deprived  me  of  heaven. 

The  fire  is  unraked, 
The  light  unextinguished, 
The  key  under  the  door, 
Do  you  softly  draw  it. 
My  mother  is  asleep, 
But  I  am  wide  awake  ; 
My  fortune  in  my  hand, 
I  am  ready  to  go  with  you. 

Written  down  by  O'Citrry  for  Dr.  George  Petrlt. 


THE  EXILE'S   SONG 

Composed  by  an  emigrant  named  MacAmbrois. 

OH  !   were  I  again  on  my  native  bay, 
By  the  curving  hills  that  are  far  away, 
I  scarcely  would  wander  for  half  a  day 
From  the  Cuckoo's  Glen  of  a  Sunday  ! 

For,  och,  och,  Eire,  O  ! 

Lone  is  the  exile  from  Eire,  O  ! 

'Tis  my  heart  that  is  heavy  and  weary  ! 

0  many  a  Christmas  in  Ireland, 

1  would  race  with  the  boys  on  the  pleasant  strand, 
With  my  hurling-stick  in  my  baby  hand, 

And  but  little  sense  to  guide  me  ! 
And,  och,  och,  Eire,  O  ! 
Sad  is  the  exile  from  Eire,  O  ! 
'Tis  my  heart  that  is  heavy  and  weary  ! 

Lonely  and  drear  is  this  foreign  plain, 
Where  I  hear  but  my  own  voice  back  again, 
No  call  of  the  corncrake,  cuckoo,  or  crane, 
Now  awakens  me  on  a  Sunday  1 

Then,  och,  och,  Eire,  O  ! 

Lost  is  the  exile  from  Eire,  O  ! 

'Tis  my  heart  that  is  heavy  and  weary  ! 


THE  EXILE'S   SONG  209 

O,  had  I  a  boat  and  a  single  oar, 
With  the  help  of  God  I'd  reach  Erin's  shore, 
Nay,  the  very  tide  might  drift  me  o'er, 
To  die  at  home  in  Erin ! 

Now,  och,  och,  Eire,  O  ! 

Would  I  were  back  in  Eire,  O  ! 

'Tis  my  heart  that  is  heavy  and  weary  ! 


THE   FISHERMAN'S   KEEN 

Or  the  lamentation  of  O'Donoghue  of  Afadown  ("  Roaring 
Water  "),  in  the  west  of  Co.  Cork,  for  his  three  sons  and 
his  son-in-law,  who  were  drowned. 

O  LOUDLY  wailed  the  winter  wind,  the  driving  sleet  fell 
fast, 

The  ocean  billow  wildly  heaved  beneath  the  bitter  blast ; 

My  three  fair  sons,  ere  break  of  day,  to  fish  had  left  the 
shore, 

The  tempest  came  forth  in  its  wrath — they  ne'er  re- 
turned more. 

Cormac,  'neath  whose  unerring  aim  the  wild  duck  fell 

in  flight, 
The  plover  of  the  lonesome  hills,  the  curlew  swift  as 

light ! 
My  firstborn  child !    the  flower  of  youth  !    the  dearest 

and  the  best ! 
O  would  that  thou  wert  spared  to  me,  though  I  had 

lost  the  rest ! 

And  thou,  my  handsome  Felix !    in  whose  eye  so  dark 

and  bright 
Theisoul  of  courage  and  of  wit  looked  forth  in  laughing 

light! 

210 


THE   FISHERMAN'S   KEEN  211 

And  Daniel,  too,  my  fair-haired  boy,  the  gentle  and  the 

brave, 
All,   all   my   stately   sons   were   'whelmed   beneath   the 

foaming  wave. 

Upon  the  shore,  in  wild  despair,  your  aged  father  stood, 
And  gazed  upon  his  Daniel's  corse,  too  late  snatched  from 

the  flood ! 

I  saw  him  pale  and  lifeless  lie,  no  more  to  see  the  light — 
And  cold,  and  dumb,  and  motionless,  my  heart  grew  at 

the  sight ! 

My  children,  my  loved  children  !   do  you  view  my  bitter 

grief  ? 
Look  down  upon  your  poor  old  sire,  whose  woe  knows 

no  relief ! 
The  sunshine  of  mine  eyes  is  gone,  the  comfort  of  my 

heart ; 
My  life  of  life,  my  soul  of  soul,  I've  seen  from  earth 

depart ! 

What  am  I  now  ?    an  aged  man,  to  earth  by  sorrow 

bowed, 

I  weep  within  a  stranger's  home  ;  lone,  even  in  a  crowd  ; 
There  is  no  sorrow  like   to  mine,   no  grief  like  mine 

appears, 
My  once  blithe  Christmas  is  weighed  down  with  anguish 

and  with  tears. 

My  sons !  my  sons !  abandoned  to  the  fury  of  the  waves ! 
Would  I  could  reach  the  two  who  lie  in  ocean's  darksome 
caves; 


212          POEMS   OF   THE   DARK   DAYS 

'Twould  bring  some  comfort  to  my  heart  in  earth,  to 

see  them  laid, 
And  hear  in  Afiadown  the  wild  lamentings    for  them 

made. 

O  would  that  like  the  gay  "  Wild  Geese  "  my  sons  had 

left  this  land, 

From  their  poor  father  in  his  age,  to  seek  a  foreign  strand  ; 
Then  might  I  hope  the  Lord  of  Heaven  in  mercy  would 

restore, 
My  brave  and  good  and  stately  sons  in  time  to  me  once 

more ! 

ANONYMOUS. 


BOATMAN'S   HYMN 

BARK  that  bare  me  through  foam  and  squall, 
You  in  the  storm  are  my  castle  wall : 
Though  the  sea  should  redden  from  bottom  to  top, 
From  tiller  to  mast  she  takes  no  drop  ; 
On  the  tide-top,  the  tide-top, 

Wherry  aroon,  my  land  and  store  ! 
On  the  tide-top,  the  tide-top, 
She  is  the  boat  can  sail  go  leor. 

She  dresses  herself,  and  goes  gliding  on, 
Like  a  dame  in  her  robes  of  the  Indian  lawn  ; 
For  God  has  bless'd  her,  gunnel  and  whale, 
And  oh  !   if  you  saw  her  stretch  out  to  the  gale, 
On  the  tide-top,  the  tide-top,  &c. 

Whillan,  ahoy  !  old  heart  of  stone, 
Stooping  so  black  o'er  the  beach  alone, 
Answer  me  well — on  the  bursting  brine 
Saw  you  ever  a  bark  like  mine  ? 

On  the  tide-top,  the  tide-top,  &c. 

Says  Whillan — "  Since  first  I  was  made  of  stone, 
I  have  looked  abroad  o'er  the  beach  alone — 


2i4          POEMS   OF  THE   DARK   DAYS 

But  till  to-day,  on  the  bursting  brine, 
Saw  I  never  a  bark  like  thine," 

On  the  tide-top,  the  tide-top,  &c. 

"  God  of  the  air  !  "    the  seamen  shout, 
When  they  see  us  tossing  the  brine  about : 
"  Give  us  the  shelter  of  strand  or  rock, 
Or  through  and  through  us  she  goes  with  a  shock  !  " 
On  the  tide-top,  the  tide-top, 

Wherry  aroon,  my  land  and  store ! 
On  the  tide-top,  the  tide-top, 
She  is  the  boat  can  sail  go  leor  ! 

SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


DIRGE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF 
ART  O'LEARY 

Shot  at  Carraganime,  Co.  Cork,  May  4,  1773 
By  Dark  Eileen,  his  wife. 

I 

L.Y  closest  and  dearest ! 

From  the  first  day  I  saw 

you 
From   the    top    of    the 

market-house, 
My  eyes  gave  heed  to  you, 
My  heart  gave  affection 

to  you, 
I  fled  from   my  friends 

with  you, 
Far  from  my  home  with 

you, 
No  lasting  sorrow  this  to 


Thou  didst  bring  me  to  fair  chambers, 
Rooms  you  had  adorned  for  me  ; 


2i6          POEMS   OF  THE   DARK   DAYS 

Ovens  were  reddened  for  me, 
Fresh  trout  were  caught  for  me, 
Roast  flesh  was  carved  for  me 
From  beef  that  was  felled  for  me  ; 
On  beds  of  down  I  lay 
Till  the  coming  of  the  milking-time, 
Or  so  long  as  was  pleasing  to  me. 


Rider  of  the  white  palm  ! 
With  the  silver-hiked  sword  ! 
Well  your  beaver  hat  became  you 
With  its  band  of  graceful  gold  ; 
Your  suit  of  solid  homespun  yarn 
Wrapped  close  around  your  form  ; 
Slender  shoes  of  foreign  fashion, 
And  a  pin  of  brightest  silver 
Fastened  in  your  shirt. 
As  you  rode  in  stately  wise 
On  your  slender  steed,  white-faced, 
After  coming  over  seas, 
Even  the  Saxons  bowed  before  you 
Bowed  down  to  the  very  ground  ; 
Not  because  they  loved  you  well 
But  from  deadly  hate  ; 
For  it  was  by  them  you  fell, 
Darling  of  my  soul. 


My  friend  and  my  little  calf  ! 
Offspring  of  the  Lords  of  Antrim. 


DIRGE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  ART  O'LEARY    217 

And  the  chiefs  of  Immokely  ! 

Never  had  I  thought  you  dead, 

Until  there  came  to  me  your  mare 

Her  bridle  dragged  beside  her  to  the  ground  ; 

Upon  her  brow  your  heart-blood  splashed, 

Even  to  the  carven  saddle  flowing  down 

Where  you  were  wont  to  sit  or  stand. 

I  did  not  stay  to  cleanse  it — 

I  gave  a  quick  leap  with  my  hands 

Upon  the  wooden  stretcher  of  the  bed  ; 

A  second  leap  was  to  the  gate, 

And  the  third  leap  upon  thy  mare. 


In  haste  I  clapped  my  hands  together, 

I  followed  on  your  tracks 

As  well  as  I  could, 

Till  I  found  you  laid  before  me  dead 

At  the  foot  of  a  lowly  bush  of  furze  ; 

Without  pope,  without  bishop, 

Without  cleric  or  priest 

To  read  a  psalm  for  thee  ; 

But  only  an  old  bent  wasted  crone 

Who  flung  over  thee  the  corner  of  her  cloak. 


My  dear  and  beloved  one  ! 

When  it  will  come  to  me  to  reach  our  home, 

Little  Conor,  of  our  love, 

And  Fiac,  his  toddling  baby-brother, 


2i8          POEMS   OF   THE   DARK   DAYS 

Will  be  asking  of  me  quickly 
Where  I  left  their  dearest  father  ? 
I  shall  answer  them  with  sorrow 
That  I  left  him  in  Kill  Martyr  ; 
They  will  call  upon  their  father  ; 
He  will  not  be  there  to  answer. 


My  love  and  my  chosen  one  ! 

When  you  were  going  forward  from  the  gate, 

You  turned  quickly  back  again  ! 

You  kissed  your  two  children, 

You  threw  a  kiss  to  me. 

You  said,  "  Eileen,  arise  now,  be  stirring, 

And  set  your  house  in  order, 

Be  swiftly  moving. 

I  am  leaving  our  home, 

It  is  likely  that  I  may  not  come  again." 

I  took  it  only  for  a  jest 

You  used  often  to  be  jesting  thus  before. 


My  friend  and  my  heart's  love  ! 

Arise  up,  my  Art, 

Leap  on  thy  steed, 

Arise  out  to  Macroom 

And  to  Inchegeela  after  that ; 

A  bottle  of  wine  in  thy  grasp, 

As  was  ever  in  the  time  of  thy  ancestors. 

Arise  up,  my  Art, 

Rider  of  the  shining  sword  ; 


DIRGE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  ART  O'LEARY    219 

Put  on  your  garments, 

Your  fair  noble  clothes  ; 

Don  your  black  beaver, 

Draw  on  your  gloves  ; 

See,  here  hangs  your  whip, 

Your  good  mare  waits  without ; 

Strike  eastward  on  the  narrow  road, 

For  the  bushes  will  bare  themselves  before  you, 

For  the  streams  will  narrow  on  your  path, 

For  men  and  women  will  bow  themselves  before  you 

If  their  own  good  manners  are  upon  them  yet, 

But  I  am  much  a-feared  they  are  not  now. 


Destruction  to  you  and  woe, 

O  Morris,  hideous  the  treachery 

That  took  from  me  the  man  of  the  house, 

The  father  of  my  babes  ; 

Two  of  them  running  about  the  house, 

The  third  beneath  my  breast, 

It  is  likely  that  I  shall  not  give  it  birth. 


My  long  wound,  my  bitter  sorrow, 

That  I  was  not  beside  thee 

When  the  shot  was  fired ; 

That  I  might  have  got  it  in  my  soft  body 

Or  in  the  skirt  of  my  gown  ; 

Till  I  would  give  you  freedom  to  escape, 

O  Rider  of  the  grey  eye, 

Because  it  is  you  would  best  have  followed  after  them. 


220         POEMS   OF  THE  DARK  DAYS 


My  dear  and  my  heart's  love  ! 

Terrible  to  me  the  way  I  see  thee, 

To  be  putting  our  hero, 

Our  rider  so  true  of  heart, 

In  a  little  cap  in  a  coffin  ! 

Thou  who  used  to  be  fishing  along  the  streams, 

Thou  who  didst  drink  within  wide  halls 

Among  the  gentle  women  white  of  breast ; 

It  is  my  thousand  afflictions 

That  I  have  lost  your  companionship  ! 

My  love  and  my  darling, 

Could  my  shouts  but  reach  thee 

West  in  mighty  Derrynane, 

And  in  Carhen  of  the  yellow  apples  after  that ; 

Many  a  light-hearted  young  horseman, 

And  woman  with  white  spotless  kerchief 

Would  swiftly  be  with  us  here, 

To  wail  above  thy  head 

Art  O'Leary  of  the  joyous  laugh  ! 

O  women  of  the  soft  wet  eyes, 

Stay  now  your  weeping, 

Till  Art  O'Leary  drinks  his  drink 

Before  his  going  back  to  school ; 

Not  to  learn  reading  or  music  does  he  go  there  now, 

But  to  carry  clay  and  stones. 


My  love  and  my  secret  thou. 
Thy  corn-stacks  are  piled, 


DIRGE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  ART  O'LEARY    221 

And  thy  golden  kine  are  milking, 

But  it  is  upon  my  own  heart  is  the  grief  ! 

There  is  no  healing  in  the  Province  of  Munster, 

Nor  in  the  Island  smithy  of  the  Fians, 

Till  Art  O'Leary  will  come  back  to  me  ; 

But  all  as  if  it  were  a  lock  upon  a  trunk 

And  the  key  of  it  gone  straying  ; 

Or  till  rust  will  come  upon  the  screw. 


My  friend  and  my  best  one  ! 

Art  O'Leary,  son  of  Conor, 

Son  of  Cadach,  son  of  Lewis, 

Eastward  from  wet  wooded  glens, 

Westward  from  the  slender  hill 

Where  the  rowan-berries  grow, 

And  the  yellow  nuts  are  ripe  upon  the  branches 

Apples  trailing,  as  it  was  in  my  day. 

Little  wonder  to  myself 

If  fires  were  lighted  in  O'Leary's  country, 

And  at  the  mouth  of  Ballingeary, 

Or  at  holy  Gougane  Barra  of  the  cells, 

After  the  rider  of  the  smooth  grip, 

After  the  huntsman  unwearied 

When,  heavy  breathing  with  the  chase, 

Even  thy  lithe  deerhounds  lagged  behind. 

O  horseman  of  the  enticing  eyes, 

What  happened  thee  last  night  ? 

For  I  myself  thought 

That  the  whole  world  could  not  kill  you 

When  I  bought  for  you  that  shirt  of  mail. 


POEMS   OF  THE   DARK   DAYS 


My  friend  and  my  darling  ! 

A  cloudy  vision  through  the  darkness 

Came  to  me  last  night, 

At  Cork  lately 

And  I  alone  upon  my  bed  ! 

I  saw  the  wooded  glen  withered, 

I  saw  our  lime-washed  court  fallen  ; 

No  sound  of  speech  came  from  thy  hunting-dogs 

Nor  sound  of  singing  from  the  birds 

When  you  were  found  fallen 

On  the  side  of  the  hill  without ; 

When  you  were  found  in  the  clay, 

Art  O'Leary ; 

With  your  drop  of  blood  oozing  out 

Through  the  breast  of  your  shirt. 


It  is  known  to  Jesus  Christ, 

I  will  put  no  cap  upon  my  head, 

Nor  body-linen  on  my  side, 

Nor  shoes  upon  my  feet, 

Nor  gear  throughout  the  house  ; 

Even  on  the  brown  mare  will  be  no  bridle, 

But  I  shall  spend  all  in  taking  the  law. 

I  will  go  across  the  seas 

To  speak  with  the  king  ; 

But  if  they  will  give  no  heed  to  me, 

It  is  I  that  will  come  back  again 

To  seek  the  villain  of  the  black  blood 


DIRGE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  ART  O'LEARY    223 

Who  cut  off  my  treasure  from  me. 
O  Morrison,  who  killed  my  hero, 
Was  there  not  one  man  in  Erin 
Would  put  a  bullet  through  you  ? 


The  affection  of  this  heart  to  you. 

O  white  women  of  the  mill, 

For  the  edged  poetry  that  you  have  shed 

Over  the  horseman  of  the  brown  mare. 

It  is  I  who  am  the  lonely  one 

In  Inse  Carriganane. 


THE  MIDNIGHT  COURT 

Prologue 
Brian  Merriman,  died  in  Limerick,  1808. 

FULL  often  I  strolled  by  the  brink  of  the  river, 
On  the  greensward  soaked  by  the  heavy  dew, 

Skirting  the  woods  in  the  bays  of  the  mountains, 
No  care  in  my  heart,  while  the  day  was  new. 

My  soul  would  light  up  when  I  saw  Loch  Greine 
Lie  blue  on  the  breast  of  the  landscape  green, 

The  heaven's  expanse  o'er  the  ring  of  the  mountains, 
Peak  beckoning  to  peak  o'er  the  ridges  between. 

Ah,  well  might  the  weakling,  the  sport  of  misfortune, 
Spent  of  his  vigour,  embittered  with  pain, 

His  birthright  wasted,  his  pockets  empty, 
Gaze  long  on  that  scene  and  take  heart  again 

On  its  mistless  bosom  the  wild  duck  settled, 
Two  followed  by  two  rode  the  stately  swan, 

In  wanton  gladness  the  perch  leaped  upward, 
Ruddy  their  scales  when  the  bright  sun  shone  ! 


THE  MIDNIGHT  COURT  225 

Peaceful  the  scene,  as  the  azure  waters 
In  ripples  swept  circling  in  to  the  shore  ; 

Strange  is  its  change  in  the  winter  quarter, 
Its  thunderous  crash,  its  hollow  roar. 

Bright  birds  in  the  trees  make  a  melody  mirthful, 
The  doe  bounds  down,  the  hunt  flashes  by, 

I  hear  the  shrill  horns,  they  are  close  upon  me  ! 
Brave  Reynard  in  front,  and  the  hounds  in  full  cry  ! 


RELIGIOUS    POEMS   OF    THE    PEOPLE 


HYMN   TO   THE   VIRGIN   MARY 

Conor  O'Riordan,  about  1750. 


UEEN  of  all  Queens,  oh !  Wonder  of  the 

loveliness  of  women, 
Heart  which  hath  held  in  check   for  us 

the  righteous  wrath  of  God  ; 
Strong  Staff  of  Light,  and  Fosterer  of  the 

Bright  Child  of  heaven, 
Pray  thou  for  us  as  we  now  pray  that  we 

may  be  forgiven. 

She  of  the  King  of  Stars  beloved,  stainless, 
undefiled, 

Christ  chose  as  His  Mother-nurse,  to  Him, 
the  stainless  Child ; 

Within  her  breast,  as  in  a  nest,  the  Para- 
clete reposes, 

Lily  among  fairest  flowers,  Rose  amid  red 
roses. 

She,  the  bright  unsheathed  sword  to  guard 

our  souls  in  anguish, 
She,  the  flawless  Umber-branch,  to  cover 

those  that  languish ; 


23o    RELIGIOUS   POEMS   OF   THE  PEOPLE 

Where  her  healing  mantle  flows,  may  I  find  my  hiding, 
'Neath  the  fringes  of  her  robe  constantly  abiding. 

Hostile  camps   upon  the  plain,   sharp   swords   clashed 

together, 
Stricken    fleets    across    the    main    stressed    by    wintry 

weather ; 

Weary  sickness  on  my  heart,  sinful  thoughts  alluring, 
All  the  fever  of  my  soul  clings  to  her  for  curing. 

She  the  Maid  the  careful  king  of  the  wide  wet  world 

chooses, 

In  her  speech  forgiveness  lies,  no  suppliant  she  refuses  ; 
White  Star  of  our  troubled  sea,  on  thy  name  I'm  crying, 
That  Christ  may  draw  in  His  spread  net  the  living  and 

the  dying. 


CHRISTMAS   HYMN 

HAIL  to  thee,  thou  holy  Babe, 

In  the  manger  now  so  poor, 
Yet  so  rich  Thou  art,  I  ween, 

High  within  the  highest  door. 

Little  Babe  who  art  so  great, 

Child  so  young  who  art  so  old, 
In  the  manger  small  His  room 

Whom  not  heaven  itself  could  hold. 

Motherless,  with  mother  here, 

Fatherless,  a  tiny  span, 
Ever  God  in  heaven's  height, 

First  to-night  becoming  man. 

Father — not  more  old  than  thou  ? 

Mother — younger,  can  it  be  ! 
Older,  younger  is  the  Son, 

Younger,  older,  she  than  He. 

DOUGLAS  HYDE 


O   MARY  OF  GRACES 

O  MARY  of  Graces 

And  Mother  of  God, 
May  I  tread  in  the  paths 

That  the  righteous  have  trod. 

And  mayest  thou  save  me 

From  evil's  control, 
And  mayest  thou  save  me 

In  body  and  soul. 

And  mayest  thou  save  me 


By  land  and  by  sea, 

And  mayest  thou  save  me 

From  tortures  to  be. 

May  the  guard  of  the  angels 

Above  me  abide, 
May  God  be  before  me 

And  God  at  my  side. 

DOUGLAS  HYDE. 


THE  CATTLE-SHED 

O  TRINITY  of  the  glorious  saints,  I  marvel 

that  the  White  Prince  of  the  Kingdom  did  descend 

as  a  child  into  the  pure  womb  of  Mary. 

Nine  months  the  Master  of  the  Angels  stayed 

in  humility  and  in  great  lowliness  with  her, 

lighting  a  furnace  of  love  within  her. 

He  came  down  to  earth, 

the  White  Lamb,  our  loosener  from  sin. 

O  Mother,  who  found  not  a  dwelling  in  the  city, 

till  thou  didst  come  to  the  stable  to  seek  a  bed ; 

there  wast  thou  lying  in  poverty, 

without  wine,  without  flesh,  or  one  taste  in  thy  mouth ; 

on  the  mean  barley  chaff  in  the  cattle-shed, 

she  brought  forth  the  only  Son  of  God  of  the  Apostles. 

Cold  and  misery  you  complained  not  of  as  your  portion, 

and  was  it  not  the  holy  sight  in  the  manger  of  the  ass  ? 


HAIL  TO  THEE,   O  MARY 

HAIL  to  thee,  O  Mary, 

Full  of  holy  graces, 
Thou  our  loving  Mother 

Whom  the  child  embraces. 
Hail  to  thee,  O  Mary, 

Where  are  our  alarms  ? 
Is  the  little  Child  not  blessed, 

Lying  in  thine  arms  ? 


TWO  PRAYERS 

A  LOW  prayer,  a  high  prayer,  I  send  through  space. 
Arrange  them  Thyself,  O  Thou  King  of  Grace. 


O  MARY,  O  BLESSED  MOTHER 

O  MARY,  O  blessed  Mother, 

praise  from  my  heart  I  sing, 

it  is  thou  didst  bear  our  Saviour, 

our  Lord  and  our  King. 

In  the  stable  of  Bethlehem's  city, 

at  the  hour  of  middle-night, 

was  not  sweet  the  brave  song  of  the  angels 

for  the  King  who  was  born  that  night  ? 

O  King  of  Kings,  a  thousand  glories  to  Thee, 

it  is  Thou  who  didst  bear  the  cross 

out  to  Calvary's  hill, 

and  Thou  wounded  in  every  spot. 

We  will  take  courage  from  the  pouring  of  the  blood, 

and  we  will  follow  our  Saviour, 

our  Lord  and  our  King, 

to  the  city  of  Glory, 

along  with  the  throng, 

Saints,  Apostles,  and  Angels, 

to  the  dwelling  of  God's  Son. 


I   REST  WITH   THEE,   O    JESUS 

I  REST  with  Thee,  O  Jesus, 

And  do  Thou  rest  with  me. 
The  oil  of  Christ  on  my  poor  soul, 
The  creed  of  the  Twelve  to  make  me  whole, 

Above  my  head  I  see. 
O  Father,  who  created  me, 
O  Son,  who  purchased  me, 
O  Spirit  Blest,  who  blessest  me, 

Rest  ye  with  me. 


THANKSGIVING  AFTER   FOOD 

Great  Giver  of  the  open  hand, 
We  stand  to  thank  Thee  for  our  meat, 
A  hundred  praises,  Christ,  'tis  meet, 
For  all  we  drink,  for  all  we  eat. 


236 


THE  SACRED  TRINITY 

THREE  folds  of  the  cloth,  yet  one  only  napkin  is  there, 
Three  joints  in  the  finger,  but  still  only  one  finger  fair  ; 
Three  leaves  of  the  shamrock,  yet  no  more  than  one 

shamrock  to  wear. 

Frost,  snow-flakes  and  ice,  all  in  water  their  origin  share, 
Three  Persons  in  God  ;    to  one  God  alone  we  make 

prayer. 


O   KING  OF  THE  WOUNDS 

O  KING  of  the  Wounds !   who  found  death  on  the  top 

of  the  tree, 
By  the  hand  of  the  blind  was  Thy  heart's  blood  riven 

from  Thee ; 
By  the  blood  from  Thy  wounds  flowing  down  in  a  pool 

on  the  field, 
O  bear  us  to  Paradise,  Thou,  'neath  the  shade  of  Thy 

shield. 


PRAYER  BEFORE  GOING  TO  SLEEP 

THE  cross  of  the  angels 

On  the  bed  where  I  lie  ; 
The  robe  of  the  kingdom, 

May  it  come  very  nigh  ; 
O  Glorious  Virgin, 

My  thousand  loves  thou, 
My  helpful  supporter, 

My  affection  thou. 
My  woman-physician, 
111  or  well,  thou, 
My  firm  faithful  helper 
In  the  Kingdom  of  graces,  thou. 
O  gentle  Jesus, 
O  Jesus,  most  gentle, 
O  Jesus  Christ,  have  mercy  upon  us ; 
O  glorious  Virgin,  pray  thou  also  for  us ; 
O  Mother  of  God,  O  Bright  Star  of  Knowledge, 
O  Queen  of  Paradise,  watch  thou  and  ward  us, 
The  light  of  glory  obtain  from  thy  Child  for  us, 
A  sight  of  thy  house,  by  thy  great  power's  might,  for  us 
The  Light  of  all  lights,  and  a  sight  of  the  Trinity, 
And  the  grace  of  long  patience  in  days  of  adversity. 


I  LIE   DOWN  WITH   GOD 

I  LIE  down  with  God,  and  may  God  lie  down  with  me 

The  right  hand  of  God  under  my  head, 

The  two  hands  of  Mary  round  about  me, 

The  cross  of  the  nine  white  angels, 

From  the  back  of  my  head 

To  the  sole  of  my  feet. 

May  I  not  lie  with  evil, 

And  may  evil  not  lie  with  me. 

Anna,  mother  of  Mary, 

Mary,  mother  of  Christ, 

Elizabeth,  mother  of  John  Baptist, 

I  myself  beseech  these  three 

To  keep  the  couch  free  from  sickness. 

The  tree  on  which  Christ  suffered 

Be  between  me  and  the  heavy-lying  (nightmare), 

And  any  other  thing  that  seeks  my  harm. 

With  the  will  of  God  and  the  aid  of  the  glorious  Virgin. 


THE  WHITE   PATERNOSTER 

On  going  to  sleep,  think  that  it  is  the  sleep  of  death, 
and  that  you  may  be  summoned  to  the  Day  of  the 
Mountain  (i.e.  the  Day  of  Judgment),  and  say : — 

I  MYSELF  lie  down  with  God, 

May  God  lie  down  with  me  ! 

The  protection  of  God  above  my  head, 

And  the  cross  of  the  angels  beneath  my  body. 

Where  wilt  thou  lie  down  to-night  f 

Between  Mary  and  her  Son, 

Between  Brigit  and  her  mantle, 

Between  Columcille  and  his  shield, 

Between  God  and  His  right  hand. 

Where  wilt  thou  arise  on  the  morrow  ? 

I  will  arise  with  Patrick. 

Who  are  they  in  front  of  us  ? 

Two  hundred  angels. 

Who  are  they  behind  us  ? 

As  many  again  of  the  people  of  God. 

Shut  the  forts  of  hell, 

And  open  the  gates  of  the  kingdom  of  God. 

Let  the  mighty  radiance  out, 

And  lead  the  sorrowful  soul  within. 

O  God,  have  mercy  upon  us  ! 

O  Son  of  the  Virgin,  may  our  souls  be  found  by  thee  ! 

Glory  to  the  Father,  glory  to  the  Son,  glory  to  the  Holy 
Ghost  of  power ;  as  it  was  in  the  beginning,  so  it  is  now, 
and  shall  be  for  ages  of  ages.  Glory  to  thee,  O  Lord. 


ANOTHER  VERSION 


WELCOME  to  thee,  O  White  Paternoster ! 

And  welcome  to  thyself  ! 

Where  didst  thou  sleep  last  night  ? 

As  He  slept,  the  King  of  Light. 

Where  wilt  thou  sleep  again  ? 

As  the  poor  will  sleep,  in  want  and  pain. 

And  the  night  after  that,  where  wilt  thou  sleep  f 

At  the  feet  of  St.  Patrick  my  rest  shall  be  deep. 


Who  are  they  out  before  thee  I  see  f 

Twelve  fair  angels  defending  me. 

Who  are  they  behind  thee  west  ? 

The  twelve  apostles  ever  blest. 

What  may  that  at  thy  right  hand  be  ? 

Holy  water  that  Mary  gave  me, 

That  it  might  lead  me,  with  guidance  wise, 

From  this  door  to  the  door  of  Paradise. 


The  key  of  Paradise,  that  I  need  ; 
The  vat  of  gold  stands  there,  indeed, 
With  its  cover  above  it,  golden-bright ; 
Yonder  where  candles  blaze  alight ; 
Candles  that  cannot  be  removed 
Till  the  full  of  my  two  hands  shall  be 
The  flowing  fulness  of  stream  and  sea. 


242    RELIGIOUS   POEMS   OF  THE   PEOPLE 


0  Men  of  the  World  who  are  shedding  tears, 

1  put  Mary  with  her  Son  between  you  and  your  fears, 

Brigit  with  her  mantle, 
Michael  with  his  shield, 

And  the  two  long  white  hands  of  God  from  behind 
folding  us  all, 

Between  you  and  each  grief 
All  the  years, 

From  this  night  till  a  year  from  to-night, 
And  this  night  itself,  with  God. 


A  NIGHT   PRAYER 

MAY  the  will  of  God  be  done  by  us, 
M  ay  the  death  of  the  saints  be  won  by  us, 
And  the  light  of  the  kingdom  begun  in  us  ; 
May  Jesus,  the  Child,  be  beside  my  bed, 
May  the  Lamb  of  mercy  uplift  my  head, 
May  the  Virgin  her  heavenly  brightness  shed, 
And  Michael  be  steward  of  my  soul ! 


MARY'S   VISION 

"  Are  you  asleep,  Mother  f  " 

"  I  am  not,  indeed,  my  son." 

"  How  is  that,  Mother  ?  " 

"  Because  of  a  vision  I  have  of  thee." 

"  What  vision  is  that,  Mother  ?  " 

"  There  came  a  slim  dark  man  on  a  slender  blacl< 
steed, 

A  sharp  lance  in  his  left  hand, 

Which  pierced  thy  right  side, 

Letting  thy  sacred  blood  pour  down  upon  thee." 
"  True  is  that  vision,  Mother." 


THE  SAFE-GUARDING  OF  MY   SOUL 

THE  safe-guarding  of  my  soul  be  Thine, 

O  Father  Ever-mighty ; 

O  Blessed  Mary, 

Nurse  of  the  King  of  Glory  ; 

Michael  the  angel, 

Their  peaceful  messenger, 

The  twelve  apostles,  and 

The  Lord  of  Mercy, 

So  that  they  may  be 

Safe-guarding  my  soul 

Unto  the  city  of  Glory. 


ANOTHER  VERSION 

I  LIE  on  this  bed 

As  I  lie  in  the  tomb. 

Firmly,  O  Jesus, 

I  make  my  confession  to  Thee. 

Through  deeds  of  my  flesh, 

Through  thoughts  of  my  heart, 

Through  sight  of  my  eyes, 


THE   SAFE-GUARDING  OF  MY  SOUL     245 

Through  hearing  of  my  ears, 
Through  speech  of  my  lips, 
Through  movements  of  my  feet, 
Through  everything  spoken 
Which  was  not  true  ; 
Through  each  thing  promised 
And  not  fulfilled ; 

Each  thing  that  I  did  against  Thy  law, 
Or  against  Thy  sacred  will, 
I  ask  forgiveness  from  Thee, 
O  King  of  Glory. 


THE   STRAYING  SHEEP 


AIR  Jesu,  guide  Thy  straying  sheep 
Along  the  fragrant  valleys, 
And  where  the  meadow-grass  grows 

deep, 
Guard  from   the   wild 

wolfs  sallies ; 
No  sickness  unto  death 

be  theirs, 

But  sickness  unto  heal- 
ing, 

Our  sickness  be  for  love  to  Thee, 
O  King  of  all  the  living. 


BEFORE  COMMUNION 

O  SAVIOUR,  who  lightest  the  sun's  blessed  ray, 
Remit  my  offences,  this  day  and  alway, 
Above  my  deserving,  or  all  I  could  pay ; 
Then  with  joy  I  receive  my  Redeemer  to-day. 


MAY  THE  SWEET   NAME   OF  JESUS 

MAY  the  sweet  name  of  Jesus 

Be  lovingly  graven 

In  my  heart's  inmost  haven. 

O  Mary,  Blest  Mother, 
Be  Jesus  my  Brother, 
And  I  Jesu's  lover. 

A  binding  of  love 
That  no  distance  can  sever, 
Be  between  us  for  ever. 
Yea,  O  my  Saviour, 
For  ever  and  ever. 


O  BLESSED  JESUS 

O  BLESSED  Jesus,  and  O  Nurse  of  the  fair  white  Lamb, 
In  the  dread  hour  of  death  it  is  under  your  shelter  I  am ; 
Saints  and  angels  about  me  in  every  time,  in  all  places, 
Leading  my  soul  to  the  home  of  the  King  of  the  Graces. 


ANOTHER  VERSION 

O  JESUS,  and  Mary  who  fostered  the  King  of  Grace, 
Be  ye  the  friends  of  my  soul,  in  every  time  and  place, 
Cold  as  a  stone  lies  my  soul,  unheeding  the  things  above, 
Smooth  Thou  my  path  in  Thy  time,  Lord  of  my  love. 


MORNING  WISH 

O  JESU,  in  the  morning,  I  cry  and  call  on  Thee, 
Blessed  only  Son  who  hast  purchased  us  dearly  ; 
Safeguard  my  soul  under  the  protection  of  Thy  holy 

cross, 
May  sin  and  loss  be  kept  from  me  through  the  course  of 

this  day. 


ON   "COVERING"  THE  FIRE 
FOR  THE   NIGHT1 

LET  us  preserve  this  fire,  as  Christ  preserves  all, 
Christ  at  the  top  of  this  house  and  Brigit  in  the  midst ; 
The  twelve  apostles  of  greatest  power  in  the  heavens 
Guarding  and  preserving  this  house  till  day. 

1  It  is  the  custom  in  the  West  of  Ireland  and  in  the  Hebrides  to 
place  a  piece  of  peat  on  the  fire  before  going  to  bed,  to  preserve 
the  ' '  seed  "  of  the  fire  till  morning  ;  this  act  is  accompanied  with 
the  recital  of  some  fragment  of  prayer  or  verse.  There  are  many 
of  these  "  covering"  or  "  sparing  "  ranns  in  existence. 


THE   MAN   WHO   STANDS    STIFF 

THE  man  who  stands  stiff  in  a  short-lived  world 
He  knows  not  how  long  is  the  lease  of  his  clod. 

With  Death  he  must  reckon,  when  Death  shall  beckon 
The  soul  must  knock  at  the  door  of  God. 

Then  Christ  shall  come  and  shall  ask  of  the  soul, 
"  O  Soul,  say  how  hast  thou  spent  thy  day  ? 

I  gave  to  thee  power  and  self-control, 
Thou  fool,  hast  thou  given  thyself  away  ?  " 

(The  Sinner  answers) 

"  I  thought  I  had  time  before  me  still, 
And  space  to  return  beneath  Thy  shield, 

But  Death  came  first,  and  against  my  will, 
Ere  I  knew  it,  to  Death  I  was  forced  to  yield." 

To  the  Trinity's  presence  the  soul  must  mount, 
To  the  judgment  it  comes,  and  its  sins  it  bears, 

And  nought  that  it  pleads  for  itself  shall  count 
Save  fasting,  and  giving  of  alms,  and  prayers. 

If  you  gave  but  a  glass  of  the  water  cold 
(The  simplest  drink  on  the  green  earth's  sod), 


THE  MAN   WHO   STANDS   STIFF       251 

Your  reward  is  before  you,  a  thousand-fold, 
If  the  thing  has  been  done  for  the  sake  of  God. 

Three  things  there  be,  the  reward  of  man 
For  offending  God — 'tis  a  risk  to  run — 

Misfortune's  fall,  and  a  shortened  span, 
And  the  pains  of  hell  when  all  is  done. 

DOUGLAS  HYDE. 


CHARM  AGAINST  ENEMIES 

THREE  things  are  of  the  Evil  One — 
An  evil  eye, 
An  evil  tongue, 
An  evil  mind ; 

Three  things  are  of  God,  and  these  three  are  what  Mary 
told  to  her  Son,  for  she  heard  them  in  heaven — 
The  merciful  word, 
The  singing  word, 
And  the  good  word. 

May  the  power  of  these  three  holy  things  be  on  all  the 
men  and  women  of  Erin  for  evermore. 

LADY  WILDE. 


CHARM    FOR  A  PAIN   IN   THE   SIDE 

"  GOD  save  you,  my  three  brothers,  God  save  you  !    And 
how  far  have  ye  to  go,  my  three  brothers  ?  " 

"  To  the  Mount  of  Olivet,  to  bring  back  gold  for  a 
cup  to  hold  the  tears  of  Christ." 

"  Go  then,  gather  the  gold,  and  may  the  tears  of  Christ 
fall  on  it,  and  thou  wilt  be  cured  both  body  and  soul." 

LADY  WILDE. 


CHARM   AGAINST  SORROW 

A  CHARM  set  by  Mary  for  her  Son,  before  the  fair  man 
and  the  turbulent  woman  laid  Him  in  the  grave. 
The  charm  of  Michael  with  the  shield, 
Of  the  palm-branch  of  Christ, 
Of  Brigit  with  her  veil. 

The  charm  which  God  set  for  Himself  when  the 
divinity  within  Him  was  darkened. 

A  charm  to  be  said  by  the  cross  when  the  night  is 
black  and  the  soul  is  heavy  with  sorrow. 

A  charm  to  be  said  at  sunrise,  with  the  hands  on 
the  breast,  when  the  eyes  are  red  with  weeping,  and  the 
madness  of  grief  is  strong.  A  charm  that  has  no  words, 
only  the  silent  prayer. 

LADY  WILDE. 


THE   KEENING  OF  MARY 

•*  O  Peter,  O  Apostle,  hast  thou  seen  my  bright  love  ?  " 

M'ocbon  agus  m'ocbon,  6  ! 
"  I  saw  Him  even  now  in  the  midst  of  His  foemen," 

M'ocbon  agus  m'ocbon,  6  ! 

"  Come  hither,  two  Marys,  till  ye  keen  my  bright  love." 

M'ocbon  agus  m'ochon,  0  J 
"  What  have  we  to  keen  if  we  keen  not  His  bones  ?  " 

Wocbon  agus  m'ochon,  6  ! 

"  Who  is  that  stately  man  on  the  tree  of  the  Passion  f  " 

M'ocbon  agus  m'ocbon,  6  ! 
"  Dost  thou  not  know  thy  Son,  O  Mother  ?  " 

M'ocbon  agus  m'ocbon,  (5  / 

"  And  is  that  the  little  Son  I  carried  nine  months  ? 

M'ochon  agus  m'ocbon,  0  ! 
«'  And  is  that  the  little  Son  that  was  born  in  the  stable  ? 

M'ochon  agus  m'ochon,  O  / 

"  And  is  that  the  little  Son  that  was  nursed  at  Mary's 
breast  ? " 

M'ochon  agus  m'ochon,  0  / 
"  Hush,  O  Mother,  and  be  not  sorrowful." 

M'ocbon  agus  m'ocbon,  6  ! 


THE   KEENING  OF   MARY  255 

"  And  is  that  the  hammer  that  struck  home  nails  through 
Thee? 

M'bchon  agus  m'ochon,  (5  ! 
"  And  is  that  the  spear  that  went  through  Thy  white  side  ? 

M'ochon  agus  m'ochon,  6  ! 

"  And  is  that  the  crown  of  thorns  that  crowned  Thy 
beauteous  head  ?  " 

M'bchan  agus  m'ochon,  6  ! 
"  Hush,  O  Mother,  be  not  sorrowful. 

M'ochon  agus  m'ochon,  O  ! 

"  Hush,  O  Mother,  and  be  not  sorrowful, 

M'ochon  agus  m'ochon,  6  ! 

"  The  women   of  my  keening   are   yet   unborn,  little 
Mother." 

M'ochon  agus  m'ochon,  0  ! 

"  O  woman,  who  weepest  by  this  My  death, 

M'ochon  agus  m'bckbn,  6  ! 

"  There  will   be  hundreds   to-day   in   the   Garden  of 
Paradise ! " 

M'ochon  agus  m'ochon,  6  ! 

P.  H.  PEARSE. 

Taken  down  from  Mary  Clancy  of  Moycullen,  who 
keened  it  with  great  horror  in  her  voice,  in  a  low  sobbing 


LOVE  SONGS  AND  POPULAR  POETRY 


CUSHLA  MA  CHREE 


EFORE  the  sun  rose  at  yesterdawn, 
I  met  a  fair  maiden  adown  the  lawn ; 
The  berry  and  snow 
To  her  cheek  gave  its  glow, 
And  her  bosom  was  fair  as  the  sailing 
swan  ; 

Then,   Pulse  of    my  heart! 
what  gloom  is  thine  ? 

Her     beautiful    voice    more 

hearts  hath  won 
Than  Orpheus'   lyre  of  old 
hath  done ; 
Her  ripe  eyes  of  blue 
Were  crystals  of  dew 
On   the  grass   of    the  lawn 

before  the  sun ; 

And,  Pulse  of  my  heart !  what  gloom  is  thine  ? 
EDWARD  WALSH. 


259 


THE  BLACKTHORN 

THERE  is  never  a  merrier  lad  in  the  town  or  a  wilder  lad 

on  the  fells, 
Till  I  fall  to  dreaming  and  thinking  of  the  place  where 

my  lost  love  dwells, 
Winter  snow  on  Slieve  na  m-Ban,  and  it  evermore  drifting 

above 
The  small  blossom  of  the  blackthorn  who  is  my  own  true 

love. 

Were  I  but  down  below  in  a  boat  I  would  float  out  over 

the  sea, 
And  many  and  many  a  line  of  love  I  would  waft  o'er  the 

wave  to  thee ; 
My  lasting  sorrow,  wound  of  my  heart,  that  we  are  not 

together  found 
In  the  mountain  glens  at  sunrise  when  the  dew  lies  on 

the  ground. 

I  myself  leave  you  my  thousand  farewells  in  the  townland 

of  the  trees, 
And  in  every  place  I  have  travelled  going  up  and  down 

from  the  seas ; 
There  is  many  a  weary  miry  road  and  crooked  damp 

boreen, 
Parting  me  from  the  cabin  of  my  own  Storeen. 


THE   BLACKTHORN  261 

Oh  !   Paddy,  would  you  think  ill  of  me  if  you  saw  that  I 

was  crying  ? 
And  oh  !  Paddy,  would  you  think  ill  of  me  if  you  knew 

me  to  be  dying  ? 
Oh !    Paddy  of  the  bound  black  hair,  your  mouth  and 

your  words  were  sweet, 
But  I  knew  not  the  hundred  twists  in  your  heart,  nor 

the  thousand  turns  on  your  feet. 

Deep  down  in  my  pocket  is  lying  the  ribbon  you  wound 

in  my  hair, 
The  men  of  Erin  together  could  not  tear  it  away  from 

there ; 

All,  all  is  over  between  us,  you  and  I  have  said  our  say, 
And  I'll  soon  be  lying  quiet  in  the  cold  damp  clay. 

He  is  the  foolish  man,  indeed,  who  would  spring  at  the 

ditch  that  is  steep, 
If  close  at  his  hand  lay  the  fence  of  furze  he  could  take 

at  a  single  leap  ; 
Though  the  rowan-berry  swings  high,  it  is  bitterest  out 

of  the  top, 
While  thick  from  the  lowliest  shrubs  the  ripe  rasps  and 

the  blackberries  drop. 

O  Virgin  beloved !  I  am  lost  if  his  face  should  be  now 

turned  away ; 
What  knowledge  have  I  how  to  reach  his  house  and  his 

kinsfolk  this  day  ? 
My  mother  bent  double  with  age,  and  my  father  long 

laid  in  the  tomb, 
And  mad  anger  on  my  people  towards  me,  and  my  love 

fled  home. 


262  LOVE  SONGS  AND  POPULAR  POETRY 

Are  you  going  from  me  for  ever,  honey  mouth,  hair  of 

flame? 
If  you  come  not  back,  avourneen,  you  leave  me  blind, 

dumb,  and  lame ; 
No  skiff  have  I  to  bring  you  back,  I  am  broken  life  and 

limb; 
The  raging  ocean  rolls  between  us  and  I  have  no  strength 

to  swim ! 


PASTHEEN   FINN 

A  Connaught  song. 

OH,  my  fair  Pastheen  is  my  heart's  delight, 

Her  gay  heart  laughs  in  her  blue  eye  bright ; 

Like  the  apple  blossom  her  bosom  white, 

And  her  neck  like  the  swan's,  on  a  March  morn  bright ! 

Then,  Oro,  come  with  me  !   come  with  me  !   come 
with  me ! 

Oro,  come  with  me  !   brown  girl,  sweet ! 

And  oh  !   I  would  go  through  snow  and  sleet, 

If  you  would  come  with  me,  brown  girl,  sweet ! 

Love  of  my  heart,  my  fair  Pastheen  1 

Her  cheeks  are  red  as  the  rose's  sheen, 

But  my  lips  have  tasted  no  more,  I  ween, 

Than  the  glass  I  drank  to  the  health  of  my  queen  ! 

Then,  Oro,  come  with  me  !    come  with  me  !   come 
with  me ! 

Oro,  come  with  me  !   brown  girl,  sweet ! 

And  oh  !   I  would  go  through  snow  and  sleet, 

If  you  would  come  with  me,  brown  girl,  sweet ! 

Were  I  in  the  town,  where's  mirth  and  glee, 
Or  'twixt  two  barrels  of  barley  bree, 
363 


264  L°VE  SONGS  AND  POPULAR  POETRY 

With  my  Pastheen  upon  my  knee, 
'Tis  I  would  drink  to  her  pleasantly  ! 

Then,  Oro,  come  with  me  !    come  with  me  !    come 
with  me ! 

Oro,  come  with  me  !   brown  girl,  sweet ! 

And  oh  !    I  would  go  through  snow  and  sleet, 

If  you  would  come  with  me,  brown  girl,  sweet ! 

Nine  nights  I  lay  in  longing  and  pain 
Betwixt  two  bushes,  beneath  the  rain, 
Thinking  to  see  you,  love,  once  again  ; 
But  whistle  and  call  were  all  in  vain  ! 

Then,  Oro,  come  with  me  !    come  with  me  !   come 
with  me ! 

Oro,  come  with  me  !   brown  girl,  sweet ! 

And  oh  !   I  would  go  through  snow  and  sleet, 

If  you  would  come  with  me,  brown  girl,  sweet ! 

I'll  leave  my  people,  both  friend  and  foe  ; 
From  all  the  girls  in  the  world  I'll  go  ; 
But  from  you,  sweetheart,  oh,  never  !   oh,  no  ! 
Till  I  lie  in  the  coffin,  stretch'd  cold  and  low ! 

Then,  Oro,  come  with  me !    come  with  me !    come 
with  me ! 

Oro,  come  with  me  !   brown  girl,  sweet ! 

And  oh  !   I  would  go  through  snow  and  sleet, 

If  you  would  come  with  me,  brown  girl,  sweet ! 

Sir  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


SHE 

THE  white  bloom  of  the  blackthorn,  she, 
The  small  sweet  raspberry-blossom,  she ; 

More  fair  the  shy,  rare  glance  of  her  eye, 
Than  the  wealth  of  the  world  to  me. 

My  heart's  pulse,  my  secret,  she, 

The  flower  of  the  fragrant  apple,  she ; 

A  summer  glow  o'er  the  winter's  snow, 
'Twixt  Christmas  and  Easter,  she. 


HOPELESS  LOVE 


INCE  I  know 
Hopeless  of  thy  love  I  go, 
Since  from  me  each  dear  delight 

takes  flight : 

Ere  we  end 

Ways  we  might  together  wend, 
Ere  the  light  from  out  mine 
eyes 

dies: 

Give  some  sign 

One  regretful  thought  is  thine, 

Lest  I  count  my  story  told, 

overbold. 

For  I  hold, 

Time  may  yet  some  joy  unfold, 
Joy  such  as  the  lifelong  blind 
find; 

If  entwined 

In  the  fabric  of  the  mind, 
Dwells  the  memory  of  thy  tear, 
dear! 


THE  GIRL  I  LOVE 

THE  girl  I  love  is  comely,  straight,  and  tall ; 

Down  her  white  neck  her  auburn  tresses  fall ; 

Her  dress  is  neat,  her  carriage  light  and  free — 

Here's  a  health  to  that  charming  maid,  whoe'er  she  be  ! 

The  rose's  blush  but  fades  beside  her  cheek  ; 

Her  eyes  are  blue,  her  forehead  pale  and  meek  ; 

Her  lips,  like  cherries  on  a  summer  tree — 

Here's  a  health  to  the  charming  maid,  whoe'er  she  be  ! 

When  I  go  to  the  field  no  youth  can  lighter  bound, 
And  I  freely  pay  when  the  cheerful  jug  goes  round  ; 
The  barrel  is  full ;  but  its  heart  we  soon  shall  see — 
Come  !  here's  to  that  charming  maid,  whoe'er  she  be  ! 

Had  I  the  wealth  that  props  the  Saxon's  reign, 
Or  the  diamond  crown  that  decks  the  King  of  Spain, 
I'd  yield  them  all  if  she  kindly  smiled  on  me — 
Here's  a  health  to  the  maid  I  love,  whoe'er  she  be  ! 

Five  pounds  of  gold  for  each  lock  of  her  hair  I'd  pay, 
And  five  times  five,  for  my  love  one  hour  each  day, 
Her  voice  is  more  sweet  than  the  thrush  on  its  own  green 

tree — 

Then,  my  dear,  may  I  drink  a  fond,  deep  health  to  thee  ! 
JEREMIAH  JOSEPH  CALLANAN. 
967 


WOULD   GOD  I  WERE 

WOULD  God  I  were  the  tender  apple-blossom 
That  floats  and  falls  from  off  the  twisted  bough, 

To  lie  and  faint  within  your  silken  bosom, 
As  that  does  now. 

Or  would  I  were  a  little  burnished  apple, 

For  you  to  pluck  me,  gliding  by  so  cold, 
While  sun  and  shade  your  robe  of  lawn  will  dapple, 

And  your  hair's  spun  gold. 

Yea,  would  to  God  I  were  among  the  roses 
That  lean  to  kiss  you  as  you  float  between, 

While  on  the  lowest  branch  a  bud  uncloses 
To  touch  you,  queen. 

Nay,  since  you  will  not  love,  would  I  were  growing, 

A  happy  daisy,  in  the  garden  path, 
That  so  your  silver  foot  might  press  me  going, 

Even  unto  death. 

KATHARINE  TYNAN-HINKSON. 


25S 


BRANCH  OF  THE  SWEET  AND 
EARLY  ROSE 

BRANCH  of  the  sweet  and  early  rose 
That  in  the  purest  beauty  flows, 

So  passing  sweet  to  smell  and  sight, 
On  whom  shalt  thou  bestow  delight  ? 

Who  in  the  dewy  evening  walk 

Shall  pluck  thee  from  the  tender  stalk  ? 

Whose  temples  blushing  shalt  thou  twine, 
And  who  inhale  thy  breath  divine  ? 

Dr.  DRENNAN. 


IS  TRUAGH   CAN   MISE  I  SASANA 

'Tis  a  pity  I'm  not  in  England, 

Or  with  one  from  Erin  thither  bound, 

Out  in  the  midst  of  the  ocean, 
Where  the  thousands  of  ships  are  drowned. 

From  wave  to  wave  of  the  ocean 

To  be  guided  on  with  the  wind  and  the  rain — 
And,  O  King  !   that  Thou  might'st  guide  me 

Back  to  my  love  again  ! 

THOMAS   MACDONAGH. 


THE  YELLOW  BITTERN 

THE  yellow  bittern  that  never  broke  out 
In  a  drinking-bout,  might  well  have  drunk  ; 

His  bones  are  thrown  on  a  naked  stone 
Where  he  lived  alone  like  a  hermit  monk. 

0  yellow  bittern  !  I  pity  your  lot, 

Though  they  say  that  a  sot  like  myself  is  curst — 

1  was  sober  a  while,  but  I'll  drink  and  be  wise 

For  fear  I  should  die  in  the  end  of  thirst. 


It's  not  for  the  common  birds  that  I'd  mourn, 

The  blackbird,  the  corncrake  or  the  crane, 
But  for  the  bittern  that's  shy  and  apart 

And  drinks  in  the  marsh  from  the  lone  bog-drain. 
Oh  !   if  I  had  known  you  were  near  your  death, 

While  my  breath  held  out  I'd  have  run  to  you, 
Till  a  splash  from  the  Lake  of  the  Son  of  the  Bird 

Your  soul  would  have  stirred  and  waked  anew. 


My  darling  told  me  to  drink  no  more 

Or  my  life  would  be  o'er  in  a  little  short  while  ; 

But  I  told  her  'tis  drink  gives  me  health  and  strength, 
And  will  lengthen  my  road  by  many  a  mile. 


272  LOVE  SONGS  AND  POPULAR  POETRY 

You  see  how  the  bird  of  the  long  smooth  neck, 
Could  get  his  death  from  the  thirst  at  last — 

Come,  son  of  my  soul,  and  drain  your  cup, 
You'll  get  no  sup  when  your  life  is  past. 

In  a  wintering  island  by  Constantine's  halls, 

A  bittern  calls  from  a  wineless  place, 
And  tells  me  that  hither  he  cannot  come 

Till  the  summer  is  here  and  the  sunny  days. 
When  he  crosses  the  stream  there  and  wings  o'er  the  sea, 

Then  a  fear  ccmes  to  me  he  may  fail  in  his  flight — 
Well,  the  milk  and  the  ale  are  drunk  every  drop, 

And  a  dram  won't  stop  our  thirst  this  night. 

THOMAS  MAcDoNACH. 


HAVE  YOU   BEEN  AT  CARRACK  ? 

HAVE  you  been  at  Carrack,  and  saw  you  my  true-love 

there  ? 

And  saw  you  her  features,  all  beautiful,  bright,  and  fair  ? 
Saw  you  the  most  fragrant,  flowering,  sweet  apple-tree  ? 
O !  saw  you  my  lov'd  one,  and  pines  she  in  grief  like 

me? 

I  have  been  at  Carrack,  and  saw  thy  own  true-love  there  ; 
And  saw,  too,  her  features,  all  beautiful,  bright,  and 

fair; 

And  saw  the  most  fragrant,  flowering,  sweet  apple-tree — 
I  saw  thy  lov'd  one — she  pines  not  in  grief,  like  thee  ! 

Five  guineas  would  price  every  tress  of  her  golden  hair — 
Then  think  what  a  treasure  her  pillow  at  night  to  share, 
These  tresses  thick-clustering  and  curling  around  her 

brow — 
O,  Ringlet  of  Fairness  !     I'll  drink  to  thy  beauty  now  ! 

When  seeking  to  slumber,  my  bosom  is  rent  with  sighs — 
I  toss  on  my  pillow  till  morning's  blest  beams  arise  ; 
No  aid,  bright  Beloved  !  can  reach  me  save  God  above, 
For  a  blood-lake  is  formed  of  the  light  of  my  eyes  with 
love! 

273  S 


274  LOVE  SONGS  AND  POPULAR  POETRY 

Until  yellow  Autumn  shall  usher  the  Paschal  day, 
And  Patrick's  gay  festival  come  in  its  train  alway — 
Until  through  my  coffin  the  blossoming  boughs  shall 

grow, 
My  love  on  another  I'll  never  in  life  bestow  ! 

Lo  !  yonder  the  maiden  illustrious,  queen-like,  high, 
With  long-flowing  tresses  adown  to  her  sandal-tie — 
Swan,  fair  as  the  lily,  descended  of  high  degree, 
A  myriad  of  welcomes,  dear  maid  of  my  heart,  to  thee  ! 

EDWARD  WALSH. 


CASHEL  OF  MUNSTER 

(Air:  "  ClAr  bog  d<§il") 

I'D  wed  you  without  herds,  without  money,  or  rich  array, 
And  I'd  wed  you  on  a  dewy  morning  at  day-dawn  grey  ; 
My  bitter  woe  it  is,  love,  that  we  are  not  far  away 
In  Cashel  town,  though  the  bare  deal  board  were  our 
marriage-bed  this  day. 

Oli,  fair  maid,  remember  the  green  hill  side, 
Remember  how  I  hunted  about  the  valleys  wide  ; 
Time  now  has  worn  me  ;  my  locks  are  turned  to  grey, 
The  year  is  scarce  and  I  am  poor,  but  send  me  not,  love, 
away ! 

Oh,  deem  not  my  birth  is  of  base  strain,  my  girl, 
Oh,  deem  not  my  birth*  was  as  the  birth  of  a  churl ; 
Marry  me,  and  prove  me,  and  say  soon  you  will, 
That  noble  blood  is  written  on  my  right  side  still ! 

My  purse  holds  no  red  gold,  no  coin  of  the  silver  white, 
No  herds  are  mine  to  drive  through  the  long  twilight ! 
But  the  pretty  girl  that  would  take  me,  all  bare  though  I 

be  and  lone, 
Oh,  I'd  take  her  with  me  kindly  to  the  county  Tyrone. 


276  LOVE  SONGS  AND  POPULAR  POETRY 

Oh,  my  girl,  I  can  see  'tis  in  trouble  you  are, 

And,  oh,  my  girl,  I  see  'tis  your  people's  reproach  you 

bear; 

"  I  am  a  girl  in  trouble  for  his  sake  with  whom  I  fly, 
And,  oh,  may  no  other  maiden  know  such  reproach  as  I !  " 
Sir  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


THE  SNOWY-BREASTED   PEARL 


HERE'S  a  colleen   fair 

as  May, 

For  a  year  and  for  a  day 
I've  sought  by  every  way  her  heart  to  gain. 
There's  no  art  of  tongue  or  eye 
Fond  youths  with  maidens  try 
But  I've  tried  with  ceaseless  sigh,  yet  tried  in 

vain. 

If  to  France  or  far-off  Spain 
She'd  cross  the  watery  main, 
To  see  her  face  again  the  sea 

I'd  brave. 

And  if  'tis  heaven's  decree 
That  mine  she  may  not  be 
May  the  son  of  Mary  me  in  mercy  save  ! 

O  thou  blooming  milk-white  dove, 

To  whom  I've  given  true  love, 

Do  not  ever  thus  reprove  my  constancy. 

There  are  maidens  would  be  mine, 

With  wealth  in  hand  and  kine, 

If  my  heart  would  but  incline  to  turn  from  thee. 

•71 


278  LOVE  SONGS  AND  POPULAR  POETRY 

But  a  kiss  with,  welcome  bland, 

And  a  touch  of  thy  dear  hand, 

Are  all  that  I  demand,  would'st  thou  not  spurn  ; 

For  if  not  mine,  dear  girl, 

O  Snowy-Breasted  Pearl ! 

May  I  never  from  the  fair  with  life  return  ! 

GEORGE  PETRIE. 


THE  DARK   MAID   OF  THE  VALLEY 

(Bean  dubh  an  Glean na) 

OH,  have  you  seen  or  have  you  heard,  my  treasure  of 

bright  faces, 
Some  dark  glen  roving,  while  in  gloom  I  pine  here  day 

and  night  ? 
Far  from  her  voice,  far  from  her  eyes,  my  cloud  of  woe 

increases — 
My  blessing  on  that  glen  and  her,  for  aye  and  aye  alight. 

'Tis  many's  the  time  they've  put  in  print,  to  beauty 

doing  homage, 
Her  figure  tall,  her  eyebrows  small,  her  thin-lipped  mouth 

of  truth, 
Her  snowy  hands,  as  fair  and  fine  as  silk  on  wild  bird's 

plumage — 
My  bitter  sigh  to  think  that  I  am  here,  a  lonely  youth  ! 

One  little  glance,  once  at  her  face,  a  flame  lit  in  my 

bosom, 
Oh,  snowy-hearted,  white-toothed  one,  whose  ringlets 

are  of  gold, 
More  dear  art  thou  than  Deirdre,  leaving  lovers  mourning 

woesome, 
Or  Blanaid,  meshing  thousands  with  her  winning  eyes 

of  old ! 


280  LOVE  SONGS  AND  POPULAR  POETRY 

Oh,  bloom  of  women  !    spurn  me  not  for  this  rich  suitor 

hoary — 
This  boorish,  noisy,  songless  man,  who  comes  between  us 

twain; 
It's  I  would  sweetly  sing  beneath  the  harvest  moon's 

gold  glory, 
For  thee  full  many  a  Fenian  lay  and  bold  Milesian  strain  ! 

P.  J.   McCALL. 


THE  COOLUN 

OH,  had  you  seen  the  Coolun,  walking  down  by  the 

cuckoo's  street, 
With  the  dew  of  the  meadow  shining  on  her  milk-white 

twinkling  feet, 
My  love  she  is,  and  my  coleen  oge,  and  she  dwells  in 

Bal'nagar ; 
And  she  bears  the  palm  of  beauty  bright,   from  the 

fairest  that  in  Erin  are. 

In  Bal'nagar  is  the  Coolun,  like  the  berry  on  the  bough 

her  cheek ; 
Bright   beauty   dwells   for   ever  on  her   fair   neck   and 

ringlets  sleek ; 
Oh,  sweeter  is  her  mouth's  soft  music,  than  the  lark  or 

thrush  at  dawn, 
Or  the  blackbird  in  the  greenwood  singing  farewell  to 

the  setting  sun. 

Rise  up,  my  boy  !  make  ready  my  horse,  for  I  forth  would 

ride, 
To  follow  the  modest  damsel,  where  she  walks  on  the 

green  hill  side ; 
For,  ever  since  our  youth  were  we  plighted,  in  faith, 

troth,  and  wedlock  true — 
She  is  sweeter  to  me  nine  times  over  than  organ  or  cuckoo ! 


282  LOVE  SONGS  AND  POPULAR  POETRY 

For,  ever  since  my  childhood  I  loved  the  fair  and  darling 

child; 
But  our  people  came  between  us,  and  with  lucre  our 

pure  love  defiled ; 
Oh,  my  woe  it  is,  and  my  bitter  pain,  and  I  weep  it 

night  and  day, 
That  the  coleen  bavm  of  my  early  love  is  torn  from  my 

heart  away. 

Sweetheart  and  faithful  treasure,  be  constant  still,  and 

true; 
Nor  for  want  of  herds  and  houses  leave  one  who  would 

ne'er  leave  you  : 

I'll  pledge  you  the  blessed  Bible,  without  and  eke  within, 
That  the  faithful  God  will  provide  for  us,  without  thanks 

to  kith  and  kin. 

Oh,  love,  do  you  remember  when  we  lay  all  night  alone, 
Beneath  the  ash  in  the  winter-storm,  when  the  oak  wood 

round  did  groan  ? 
No  shelter  then  from  the  blast  had  we,  the  bitter  blast 

and  sleet, 
But  your  gown  to  wrap  about  our  heads,  and  my  coat 

around  our  feet. 

Sir  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


CEANN   DUBH   DHILEAS1 


UT  your  head,  darling,  darling, 

darling, 
Your  darling  black  head  my 

heart  above ; 

Oh,  mouth  of  honey,  with 
the  thyme  for  fragrance, 
Who,  with  heart  in  breast, 

could  deny  you  love  ? 
Oh,  many  and  many  a  young  girl  for  me  is 

pining, 
Letting   her   locks  of   gold  to   the  cold 

wind  free, 
For  me,  the  foremost  of   our  gay  young 

fellows ; 
But  I'd  leave  a  hundred,  pure  love,  for 

thee! 
Then    put    your    head,    darling,    darling, 

darling, 

Your  darling  black  head  my  heart  above  ; 
Oh,  mouth  of  honey,  with  the  thyme  for  fragrance, 
Who,  with  heart  in  breast,  could  deny  you  love  ? 

Sir  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 

i  "  Beloved  Dark  Head." 
283 


RINGLETED   YOUTH   OF   MY    LOVE 

RINGLETED  youth  of  my  love, 

With  thy  locks  bound  loosely  behind  thee, 
You  passed  by  the  road  above, 

But  you  never  came  in  to  find  me  ; 
Where  were  the  harm  for  you 

If  you  came  for  a  little  to  see  me, 
Your  kiss  is  a  wakening  dew 

Were  I  ever  so  ill  or  so  dreamy. 

If  I  had  goldeft  store 

I  would  make  a  nice  little  boreen 
To  lead  straight  up  to  his  door, 

The  door  of  the  house  of  my  storeen  ; 
Hoping  to  God  not  to  miss 

The  sound  of  his  footfall  in  it, 
I  have  waited  so  long  for  his  kiss 

That  for  days  I  have  slept  not  a  minute. 

I  thought,  O  my  love  !   you  were  so — 
As  the  moon  is,  or  sun  on  a  fountain, 

And  I  thought  after  that  you  were  snow, 
The  cold  snow  on  top  of  the  mountain  ; 


RINGLETED   YOUTH   OF  MY  LOVE      285 

And  I  thought  after  that,  you  were  more 
Like  God's  lamp  shining  to  find  me, 

Or  the  bright  star  of  knowledge  before, 
And  the  star  of  knowledge  behind  me. 

You  promised  me  high-heeled  shoes, 

And  satin  and  silk,  my  storeen, 
And  to  follow  me,  never  to  lose, 

Though  the  ocean  were  round  us  roaring  ; 
Like  a  bush  in  a  gap  in  a  wall 

I  am  now  left  lonely  without  thee, 
And  this  house  I  grow  dead  of,  is  all 

That  I  see  around  or  about  me. 

DOUGLAS  HYDE. 


I  SHALL  NOT   DIE  FOR  YOU 


WOMAN,  shapely  as  the  swan, 

On  your  account  I  shall 

not  die, 
The  men  you've  slain — 

a  trivial  clan — 
Were  less  than  I. 

I  ask  me  shall  I  die  for 

these, 
For  blossom-teeth    and 

scarlet  lips  ? 
And  shall  that  delicate 

swan-shape 
Bring  me  eclipse  ? 

Well  shaped  the  breasts  and  smooth  the  skin, 
The  cheeks  are  fair,  the  tresses  free ; 
And  yet  I  shall  not  suffer  death, 
God  over  me ! 

Those  even  brows,  that  hair  like  gold, 
Those  languorous  tones,  that  virgin  way  ; 
The  flowing  limbs,  the  rounded  heel 
Slight  men  betray. 


I   SHALL   NOT  DIE   FOR  YOU        287 

Thy  spirit  keen  through  radiant  mien, 
Thy  shining  throat  and  smiling  eye, 
Thy  little  palm,  thy  side  like  foam — 
I  cannot  die ! 

O  woman,  shapely  as  the  swan, 

In  a  cunning  house  hard-reared  was  I ; 

0  bosom  white,  O  well-shaped  palm, 

1  shall  not  die. 

PADRAIC  COLUM 


DONALL   OGE 

WERE  I  to  go  to  the  West,  from  the  West  I  would  come 

not  again, 
The  hill  that  is  highest  I  would  climb,  at  the  cord  that 

is  toughest  I  would  strain  ; 
The  branch  I  would  soonest  pluck  is  far  out  of  my  reach 

in  the  hollow, 
And  the  track  of  my  lover's  feet  is  the  track  that  my 

heart  would  follow. 

My  heart  is  as  dark  as  the  sloe  in  a  crack  of  the  mountain 

gorge ; 
Or  a  burnt-out  cinder  fallen  down  at  the  back  of  the 

blazing  forge ; 
As  the  stain  of   a  miry  shoe  on  the  marble  steps  of  a 

palace, 
As  the  stain  of  a  drowning  fly  in  the  wine  of  the  Holy 

chalice.1 

My  heart  is  a  cluster  of  nuts  with  every  kernel  dropped, 
My  heart  is  the  ice  on  the  pond  above,  where  the  mill 

has  stopped ; 

A  mournful  sadness  is  breaking  over  my  running  laughter 
Like  the  mirth  of  a  maid  at  her  marriage  and  the  heavy 

sorrow  after. 

1  This  line  is  not  in  the  original. 


DONALL   OGE  289 

You  have  taken  the  East  from  me  and  you  have  taken 

the  West, 
You  have  taken  the  path  before  me  and  the  path  that  is 

behind ; 
The  moon  is  gone  from  me  by  night  and  the  sun  is  gone 

by  day, 
Alas  !   I  greatly  dread  you  have  stolen  my  God  away  ! 

By  the  Well  of  Loneliness  I  sit  and  make  my  moan  ; 

I  hear  no  sound  in  the  depths  below  from  the  fall  of 

the  dropping  stone ; 

I  see  the  cold  wide  world,  but  my  lad  I  do  not  see, 
Your  shadow  no  longer  lying  between  God  and  me. 

The  colour  of  the  blackberry  is  my  old  lover's  colour  ; 
Or  the  colour  of  the  raspberry  on  a  bright  day  of  summer  ; 
Or  the  colour  of  the  heathberry  where  the  bog-grass  is 

rarest — 
Ah  !  the  blackest  head  is  often  on  the  form  that's  fairest. 

I  heard  the  dog  speak  of  you  last  night  and  the  sun  gone 

down, 
I  heard  the   snipe  calling  aloud  from  the  marshlands 

brown ; 

It  is  you  are  the  lonely  bird  flitting  from  tree  to  tree — 
May  you  never  find  your  mate  if  you  find  not  me  ! 

It  is  time  for  me  to  leave  this  cruel  town  behind, 
The  stones  are  sharp  in  it,  the  very  mould  unkind  ; 
The  voice  of  blame  is  heard  like  the  muttering  of  the 

sea — 

The  heavy  hand  of  the  band  of  men  backbiting  me. 

T 


290    LOVE   SONGS   AND   POPULAR  POETRY 

I  denounce  love ;    she  who  gave  it  to  him  is  now  all 

undone ; 

Little  he  understood,  yon  black  mother's  son. 
That  my  heart  is  turned  to  stone,  what  mattered  that 

to  you  ? 
What  were  you  caring  for,  but  to  get  a  cow  or  two  ? 


THE   GRIEF  OF  A   GIRL'S   HEART 

Some  of  the  verses  in  this  poem  are  identical  with  those 
found  in  "  Donall  Oge,"  and  also  with  the  poem  called 
*  Breed  Astore  "  in  Dr.  Hyde's  Love  Songs  of  Connaugbt. 
I  have  omitted  those  which  occur  in  the  former  poem 
and  added  one  quatrain  from  the  latter,  which  it  would 
be  a  pity  to  leave  out.  They  seem  to  have  been  all 
parts  of  the  same  long  poem.  Here  again  we  have 
Donall  Oge  or  "  Young  Donall  "  as  the  lover. 

0  DONALL  OGE,  if  you  will  go  across  the  sea, 
Bring  myself  with  you,  and  do  not  forget  it ; 

There  will  be  a  "  faring "  for  thee  on  fine  days  and 
market-days, 

And  the  daughter  of  the  King  of  Greece  as  your  bed- 
fellow at  night. 

If  you  go  over  seas,  there  is  a  token  I  have  of  you, 
Your  bright  top-knot  and  your  two  grey  eyes, 
Twelve  ringlets  on  your  yellow  curling  head, 
Like  the  cowslip  or  the  rose-leaf  in  the  garden. 

You  promised  me,  but  you  spoke  a  lie  to  me, 

That  you  would  be  before  me  at  the  fold  of  the  sheep ; 

1  let  a  whistle  out  and  three  hundred  shouts  for  you, 
But  I  found  nothing  in  it  but  a  lamb  a-bleating. 


292  LOVE  SONGS  AND  POPULAR  POETRY 

You  promised  me,  a  thing  that  was  hard  for  you, 
A  ship  of  gold  under  a  mast  of  silver, 
Twelve  great  towns  of  the  world's  market-towns, 
And  a  fine  white  court  beside  the  sea. 


You  promised  me,  a  thing  that  was  not  possible, 
You  would  give  me  gloves  of  fishes'  skin, 
You  would  give  me  shoes  of  the  feathers  of  birds, 
And  gowns  of  silk  the  richest  in  Erinn. 

0  Donall  Oge,  it  were  better  for  thee  I  to  be  with  thee, 
Than  a  high-born,  arrogant,  wasteful  lady  ; 

1  would  milk  your  cows  and  I  would  churn  for  you, 
And  if  it  went  hard  with  you,  I  would  strike  a  blow  with 

you. 

Och,  ochone,  it  is  not  the  hunger, 

Nor  want  of  food  and  drink,  nor  want  of  sleep, 

That  has  left  me  wasting  and  weary  ; 

The  love  of  a  young  man  it  is  that  has  sickened  me. 

Early  in  the  morning  I  saw  the  young  man 
On  the  back  of  his  horse  going  along  the  road  ; 
He  did  not  move  over  to  me  nor  take  any  heed  of  me, 
And  on  my  coming  home,  it  is  I  who  wept  my  fill. 

When  I  myself  go  to  the  Well  of  Loneliness 
I  sit  down  and  I  go  through  my  trouble, 
When  I  see  the  world  and  I  see  not  my  lad  ; 
There  was  the  shadow  of  amber  upon  his  hair. 


THE   GRIEF   OF   A  GIRL'S   HEART       293 

It  was  a  Sunday  that  I  gave  my  love  to  you, 
The  Sunday  before  Easter  Sunday  exactly  ; 
I  myself  on  my  knees  a-reading  the  Passion, 
My  two  eyes  giving  love  to  you  ever  after. 

Oye,  little  mother,  give  myself  to  him, 

And  give  him  what  is  yours  of  goods  entirely, 

Out  with  yourself  a-begging  alms 

And  do  not  be  going  East  and  West  seeking  me. 

My  little  mother  said  to  me  not  to  speak  with  you 
To-day  or  to-morrow  or  on  Sunday, 
It  is  in  the  bad  hour  she  gave  me  that  choice, 
It  is  "  shutting  the  door  after  the  theft." 

And  you  passed  me  by,  dark  and  late, 

And  you  passed  me  by,  and  the  light  of  the  day  in  it ; 

If  you  would  come  in  yourself  and  see  me 

Never  a  word  at  all  would  I  have  with  you.1 

1  This  last  stanza  is  from  Dr.  Hyde's ' '  Breed  Astore  "  (Love  Songs, 
p.  77),  where  the  third  stanza  is  also  found. 


DEATH   THE   COMRADE 

WHEN  I  rose  up  in  the  morning  early 

On  a  sunny  day  in  the  burst  of  spring, 
My  step  was  lithe,  and  my  form  was  burly, 

I  felt  as  blithe  as  a  bird  on  the  wing ; 
As  I  was  going  out  my  way 

Who  should  stand  in  the  path  but  Death  ; 
I  knew  he  was  strong,  and  would  not  be  said  nay, 
So  I  wished  him  "  Good-morrow," — but  I  caught  my 
breath, 

When,  "  Hurry  (HI,  Shawn,  for  Pm  wanting  you  to 
come  with  me,"  he  saitb. 

Oh,  then,  Maura,  is  it  parting  I  am  from  you, 

My  thousand  loves  for  ever  on  earth  ? 
I  who  would  plant  the  potatoes  for  you, 

I  whom  you  needed  to  cut  the  turf  ! 
I  who  would  buy  you  the  young  milch  cow, 

I  who  would  croon  you  to  sleep  with  a  rann, 
I  who  at  eve  would  lie  down  with  your  leave — 
What  ever  would  you  do  without  your  man  ? 

0  Maura,  keep  me  with  you  a  little,  little  longer,  if 
you  can  ! 

"  There's  many  an  old  man  down  in  the  town, 
And  no  manner  of  use  or  abuse  in  him  more ; 


DEATH  THE  COMRADE  295 

There's  little  Dominic,  wizened  and  brown, 

Begging  his  scraps  from  door  to  door ; 
And  his  wife  and  children  famished  with  cold 

Trying  to  find  him  his  bit  of  bread  ; 

0  Death,  'tis  your  right  to  take  the  old — 

And  they  say  that  Dominic's  wrong  in  his  head — 

O  Death,  take  Dominic  with  you,  for  'tis  badly  I'm 
•wanted,  here,'''  I  said. 

"  It's  a  fine  man  you  are,  but  you  stand  in  my  way, 
I'd  be  thankful  you'd  let  me  get  on  to  my  fields ; " 

He  raised  his  arm,  it  was  cold  as  clay, 

And  strong  as  the  flail  the  thresher  wields. 

1  tried  to  push  him  out  of  my  road, 

But  his  bony  fingers  clutched  me  tight ; 
"  I  am  your  comrade  henceforth,"  he  said, 
"  Another  man  tends  your  sheep  to-night ; 

Hurry  home,  Shawn,  I  call  for  you  again  before  the 
morning's  light." 


MUIRNEEN   OF  THE  FAIR   HAIR 


OR  a  year  my  love  lies  down, 
In  a  little  western  town, 
And  the  sun  upon  the  corn  is 

not  so  sweet ; 

At  the  chill  time  of  the  year, 
On  the  hills  where  roams  my  dear, 
There  is  honey  in  the  traces  of  her  feet. 


If  my  longing  I  could  get, 

I  would  take  her  in  a  net, 

And  would  ease  my  aching  sorrow 

for  a  while ; 

And  though  all  men  say  me  nay 
I  shall  wed  her  on  a  day, 
She  my  darling  of  the  sweet  and  sunny  smile. 

I  have  finished  with  the  plough, 

And  must  sow  my  seedlands  now, 
I  must  labour  in  the  face  of  wind  and  weather ; 

But  in  rain  and  frost  and  snow, 

Always  as  I  come  and  go, 
I  am  thinking  she  and  I  should  be  together. 
296 


MUIRNEEN   OF   THE   FAIR  HAIR       297 

0  love  my  heart  finds  fair  ! 
It  is  little  that  you  care 

Though  I  perish  in  the  blackness  of  my  grief  ; 

But  may  you  never  tread 

God's  Heaven  overhead, 
If  you  scorn  me  and  refuse  my  love  relief. 

1  would  count  them  little  worth, 
All  the  women  of  the  earth, 

And  myself  alone  to  have  the  choice  among  them  ; 
For  in  books  I  read  it  clear, 
That  the  beauty  of  my  dear, 

It  has  wrestled  with  their  beauties  and  has  flung 
them. 

ROBIN  FLOWER. 


THE   RED   MAN'S   WIFE 

'Tis  what  they  say, 

Thy  little  heel  fits  in  a  shoe. 
'Tis  what  they  say, 

Thy  little  mouth  kisses  well,  too. 
'Tis  what  they  say, 

Thousand  loves  that  you  leave  me  to  rue  ; 
That  the  tailor  went  the  way 

That  the  wife  of  the  Red  man  knew. 


Nine  months  did  I  spend 

In  a  prison  closed  tightly  and  bound  ; 
Bolts  on  my  smalls 

And  a  thousand  locks  frowning  around  j 
But  o'er  the  tide 

I  would  leap  with  the  leap  of  a  swan, 
Could  I  once  set  my  side 

By  the  bride  of  the  Red-haired  man. 


I  thought,  O  my  life, 

That  one  house  between  us,  love,  would  be  ; 
And  I  thought  I  would  find 

You  once  coaxing  my  child  on  your  knee  ; 
298 


THE   RED   MAN'S   WIFE  299 

But  now  the  curse  of  the  High  One 

On  him  let  it  be, 
And  on  all  of  the  band  of  the  liars 

Who  put  silence  between  you  and  me. 

There  grows  a  tree  in  the  garden 

With  blossoms  that  tremble  and  shake, 
I  lay  my  hand  on  its  bark 

And  I  feel  that  my  heart  must  break. 
On  one  wish  alone 

My  soul  through  the  long  months  ran, 
One  little  kiss 

From  the  wife  of  the  Red-haired  man. 

But  the  Day  of  Doom  shall  come, 

And  hills  and  harbours  be  rent ; 
A  mist  shall  fall  on  the  sun 

From  the  dark  clouds  heavily  sent ; 
The  sea  shall  be  dry, 

And  earth  under  mourning  and  ban  ; 
Then  loud  shall  he  cry 

For  the  wife  of  the  Red-haired  man. 

DOUGLAS  HYDE. 


300     LOVE   SONGS   AND   POPULAR  POETRY 


ANOTHER  VERSION 

SALUTATION  to  thee, 

0  Seagull,  who  flew  to  my  bosom, 
As  the  Maid  of  the  West 

Winged  her  way  o'er  the  waves  of  the  sea  ; l 
In  wrath  I  will  ravage  the  country 

Right  up  to  the  ridge  of  Roscuain  ; 
But  when  I  turn  home  again, 
Back  to  my  bird  again, 

'Tis  I  who  am  conquered  then, 
Conquered  by  thee. 

Whiter  thy  neck,  thousand  loves, 

Than  the  swan  that  floats  out  on  the  billow ; 
Redder  thy  cheek 

Than  the  rose-blossom  dropped  from  the  tree  ; 
Softer  thy  voice 

Than  the  cuckoo's  low  call  from  the  willow, 
And  smoother  than  silk, 

The  fine  silk  of  the  silkworm, 
The  silkworm  in  spinning, 
The  fair  lodes  of  thee. 

Maid  without  spot,  matchless  maiden, 

How  lovely  the  bloom  of  thy  forehead  ! 
Where  is  the  fortunate  youth 

1  would  care  to  betroth  to  thee  ? 

i.e.  Deirdre,  who  fled  with  the  sons  of  Usnach  to  Scotland. 


I 

THE   RED   MAN'S   WIFE  301 

Why  should  I  hide  or  conceal  it  ? 

The  gloom  of  my  soul  I  reveal  it ; 
The  mists  round  me  thicken, 
With  death  I  am  stricken, 

'Twas  the  Red  Man  who  smote 
When  he  stole  thee  from  me. 

Blossom  of  beauty,  my  blossom, 

Ten  thousand  blessings  before  thee, 
Sick  to  the  death  is  my  heart 

For  sorrowful  lack  of  thee. 
If  I  could  coax  thee  and  tell  thee 

How  lonely  I  am  and  weary, 
Thy  wild  eyes  would  soften, 

Would  soften  in  sorrow, 
At  the  pain  of  my  loss, 
By  the  Red  Man  and  thee. 

Though  in  a  gaol  I  were  fast, 

There  below  in  the  old  Down  quarter, 
Bolts  on  my  wrist,  and  my  waist 

Fastened  tight  under  lock  and  key  ; 
Swift  as  the  flight  of  the  falcon 

Or  the  swan  swooping  down  on  the  harbour, 
I'd  find  thee  and  bind  thee, 

In  my  arms  I'd  entwine  thee, 
Ere  the  Red  Man  could  part  us, 
Could  part  thee  from  me. 


MY  GRIEF  ON  THE  SEA 


Y  grief  on  the  sea, 

How  the  waves  of  it  roll ! 

How  they  heave  between  me 

And  the  love  of  my  soul ! 


Abandoned,  forsaken, 
To  grief  and  to  care, 

Will  the  sea  ever  waken 
Relief  from  despair  ? 

My  grief,  and  my  trouble  ! 

Would  he  and  I  were 
In  the  province  of  Leinster, 

Or  county  of  Clare. 


Were  I  and  my  darling — 
Oh,  heart-bitter  wound  !- 

On  board  of  the  ship 
For  America  bound. 

On  a  green  bed  of  rushes 
All  last  night  I  lay, 

308 


MY   GRIEF  ON  THE   SEA  303 

And  I  flung  it  abroad 
With  the  heat  of  the  day. 

And  my  love  came  behind  me — 

He  came  from  the  South  ; 
His  breast  to  my  bosom, 

His  mouth  to  my  mouth. 

DOUGLAS  HYDE. 


OR6  MH6R,  A  MH6lRfN 

O  DEAR  is  Paudheen,  blithe  and  gay, 
Upon  a  fair  or  market  day  ; 
But  far  more  dear  a  March  morn  clear, 
As  in  his  boat  he  singeth  gay  ! 
Oro  wore,  a-woreen ! 

Oro  wore,  love,  will  you  go, 
Oro  wore,  a-woreen ! 

Golden  hair,  out  for  a  row  ? 

He  said  and  said — what  did  he  say  ? — 
He  said  he'd  come  on  Brigid's  Day  ! 
But  shirt  and  sock  were  in  the  crock  ; 
And  so  he  couldn't  speed  away  ! 
Oro  wore,  &c. 

He  said  and  said — what  did  he  say  ? — 
He  said  he'd  come  on  Patrick's  Day  ! 
But  coat  and  stock  were  under  lock  ; 
And  so  he  couldn't  steal  away  ! 
Oro  wore,  &c. 

He  said  and  said — what  did  he  say  ? — 
He  said  he'd  come  on  Sheela's  Day  !  * 

1  The  day  after  St.  Patrick's  Day. 
304 


OR6   MH6R,   A   MH6IRIN  305 

But  Borna  Rock  fell  with  a  shock 
Upon  him,  so  he  stayed  away ! 
Oro  wore,  &c. 

He  said  and  said — what  did  he  say  f — 
He  said  he'd  come  on  Easter  Day  ! 
But  at  the  knock  he  met  a  flock 
Of  geese,  that  frightened  him  away  ! 
Oro  wore,  &c. 

He  said  and  said — what  did  he  say  ? — 
He  said  he'd  come  this  very  day  ! 
If  he  should  mock,  I  pray  some  rock 
May  wreck  his  corrach  on  the  way  ! 
Oro  wore,  a-woreen ! 

Oro  wore,  love,  will  you  go, 
Oro  wore,  a-woreen ! 

Golden  hair,  out  for  a  row  ? 

P.  J.   McCALL 


THE  LITTLE   YELLOW   ROAD 

Taken  down  ir  Co.  Mayo  from  Michael  Mac  Rudhraighe. 

AM  sick,  sick, 

No  part  of  me  sound  ; 

The  heart  in  my  middle 

Dies  of  its  wound, 

Pining  the  time 

When  she  did  stand 

With  me  shoulder  to  shoulder 

And  hand  in  hand. 

I  travelled  west 

By  the  little  yellow  road 

In  the  hope  I  might  see 

Where  my  Secret  abode. 

White  were  her  two  breasts, 

Red  her  hair, 

Guiding  the  cow 

And  the  weaned  calf,  her  care. 

Until  wind  flows 
From  this  stream  west, 
Until  a  green  plain  spreads 
On  the  withered  crest, 
306 


THE  LITTLE  YELLOW  ROAD          307 

And  white  fields  grow 
The  heather  above, 
My  heart  will  not  find 
Kindness  from  my  love. 

There's  a  flood  in  the  river 
Will  not  ebb  till  day, 
And  dread  on  me 
That  my  love  is  away. 
Can  I  live  a  month 
With  my  heart's  pain 
Unless  she  will  come 
And  see  me  again  ? 

I  drink  a  measure 
And  I  drink  to  you, 
I  pay,  I  pay, 
And  I  pay  for  two. 
Copper  for  ale 
And  silver  for  beer — 
And  do  you  like  coming 
Or  staying  here  ? 

SEOSAMH  MAC  CATHMHAOIL. 


REPROACH  TO  THE  PIPE 

Taken  down  from  a  man  named  William  O'Ryan.  of  Newcastle, 
Upper  Galway. 

I'VE  a  story  to  tell  you, 

My  little  Duideen, 
As  ugly  a  story 

As  ever  was  seen  ; 
The  days  are  gone  by 

When  I  held  my  head  high, 
And  that  this  is  your  doing, 

You  cannot  deny. 

It  is  you,  without  doubt, 

Stole  my  means  and  my  wealth, 
My  name  and  my  fortune, 

My  friends  and  my  health  ; 
But  if  only  I  were 

In  new  lands  far  from  Clare, 
I'd  be  scraping  and  saving 

With  the  best  of  them  there  ! 

While  you  are  well-filled, 
Cleaned  up,  and  kept  trim, 

There's  no  bread  on  my  plate 
And  no  strength  in  my  limb ; 
308 


REPROACH  TO  THE  PIPE  309 

Were  I  hung  as  a  scarecrow, 

In  the  fields  over-night, 
Sure,  not  only  the  birds 

But  my  friends  would  take  flight ! 

I  might  buy  a  laced  hat 

For  your  handsome  young  head, 
That  would  pass  with  O'Hara, 

When  all's  done  and  said  ; 
But  to  you  'tis  no  odds 

Though  I  fast  day  and  night, 
Your  mouth  is  wide  open 

Still  asking  its  light. 

When  I  go  out  to  Mass 

My  best  coat  is  in  slashes, 
And  quite  half  my  food 

Has  been  burnt  in  the  ashes ; 
My  heels  may  go  cold, 

'Tis  for  you,  I  allege, 
The  tobacconist's  shop 

Has  my  breeches  in  pledge  ! 

The  time  that  poor  Nora 

Thought  me  down  at  the  loom, 
Throwing  the  shuttle 

Or  doing  a  turn  ; 
I'd  be  lighting  my  pipe 

About  old  Joseph's  door  ; 
Discoursing  and  drinking 

An  hour  or  more. 


3io  LOVE  SONGS  AND  POPULAR  POETRY 

O,  my  little  duideen, 

My  little  duideen, 
You're  the  cunningest  rogue 

That  ever  was  seen  ! 
But  I'm  done  with  you  quite, 

Off,  out  of  my  sight ! 
With  O'Kelly  the  weaver 

I'm  away  at  daylight ! 


LAMENT  OF  MORIAN  SHEHONE  FOR 
MISS   MARY  BOURKE 

From  an  Irish  Keen. 

"  THERE'S   darkness  in   thy  dwelling-place   and   silence 

reigns  above, 
And  Mary's  voice  is  heard  no  more,  like  the  soft  voice  of 

love. 
Yes !     thou   art   gone,  my   Mary   dear !    And  Morian 

Shehone 

Is  left  to  sing  his  song  of  woe,  and  wail  for  thee  alone. 
Oh  !   snow-white  were  thy  virtues ! — the  beautiful,  the 

young, 
The  old  with  pleasure  bent  to  hear  the  music  of  thy 

tongue ;  _ 
The  young  with  rapture  gazed  on  thee,  and  their  hearts 

in  love  were  bound, 
For  thou  wast  brighter  than  the  sun  that  sheds  its  light 

around. 

My  soul  is  dark,  O  Mary  dear  !   thy  sun  of  beauty's  set ; 
The  sorrowful  are  dumb  for  thee — the  grieved  their  tears 

forget ; 

And  I  am  left  to  pour  my  woe  above  thy  grave  alone  ; 
For  dear  wert  thou  to  the  fond  heart  of  Morian  Shehone. 


3i2  LOVE  SONGS  AND  POPULAR  POETRY 

"  Fast-flowing  tears  above  the  grave  of  the  rich  man  are 

shed, 
But  they  are  dried  when  the  cold  stone  shuts  in  his 

narrow  bed  ; 
Not  so  with  my  heart's  faithful  love — the  dark  grave 

cannot  hide 
From  Morian's  eyes  thy  form  of  grace,  of  loveliness,  and 

pride. 
Thou  didst  not  fall  like  the  sere  leaf,  when  autumn's  chill 

winds  blow — 
'Twas  a  tempest  and  a  storm-blast  that  has  laid  my 

Mary  low. 
Hadst  thou  not  friends  that  loved  thee  well  ?    hadst 

thou  not  garments  rare  ? 
Wast  thou  not  happy,  Mary  ?   wast  thou  not  young  and 

fair? 
Then  why  should  the  dread  spoiler  come,  my  heart's 

peace  to  destroy, 

Or  the  grim  tyrant  tear  from  me  my  all  of  earthly  joy  ? 
Oh  !  am  I  left  to  pour  my  woes  above  thy  grave  alone  ? 
Thou  idol  of  the  faithful  heart  of  Morian  Shehone  ! 


"  Sweet  were  thy  looks  and  sweet  thy  smiles,  and  kind 

wast  thou  to  all ; 
The  withering  scowl  of  envy  on  thy  fortunes  dared  not 

fall; 
For  thee  thy  friends  lament  and  mourn,  and  never  cease 

to  weep — 
Oh  !   that  their  lamentations  could  awake  thee  from  thy 

sleep  ! 
Oh !   that  thy  peerless  form  again  could  meet  my  loving 

clasp  ! 


LAMENT  OF   MORI  AN   SHEHONE        313 

Oh !    that  the  cold  damp  hand  of  Death  could  loose  his 

iron  grasp  ! 
Yet,  when  the  valley's  daughters  meet  beneath  the  tall 

elm  tree, 

And  talk  of  Mary  as  a  dream  that  never  more  shall  be, 
Then  may  thy  spirit  float  around,  like  music  in  the  air, 
And  pour  upon  their  virgin  souls  a  blessing  and  a  prayer. 
Oh  !  am  I  left  to  pour  my  wail  above  thy  grave  alone  ?  " 
Thus  sinks  in  silence  the  lament  of  Mori  an  Shehone. 

ANONYMOUS. 


MODEREEN  RUE  ;   OR,  THE  LITTLE 
RED  ROGUE1 

OCH,  Modereen  Rue,  you  little  red  rover, 
By  the  glint  of  the  moon  you  stole  out  of  your  cover, 
And  now  there  is  never  an  egg  to  be  got, 
Nor  a  handsome  fat  chicken  to  put  in  the  pot. 
Och,  Modereen  Rue ! 

With  your  nose  to  the  earth  and  your  ear  on  the  listen, 
You  slunk  through  the  stubble  with  frost-drops  aglisten, 
With  my  lovely  fat  drake  in  your  teeth  as  you  went, 
That  your  red  roguish  children  should  breakfast  content. 
Och,  Modereen  Rue  ! 

Och,  Modereen  Rue,  hear  the  horn  for  a  warning, 
They  are  looking  for  red  roguish  foxes  this  morning ; 
But  let  them  come  my  way,  you  little  red  rogue, 
'Tis  I  will  betray  you  to  huntsman  and  dog. 
'Och,  Modereen  Rue ! 

The  little  red  rogue,  he's  the  colour  of  bracken, 
O'er  mountains,  o'er  valleys,  his  pace  will  not  slacken, 
Tantara  !   Tantara  !  he  is  off  now,  and,  faith  ! 
'Tis  a  race  'twixt  the  little  red  rogue  and  his  death. 
Och,  Modereen  Rue ! 

»  The  fox. 
SM 


MODEREEN  RUE  315 

Och,  Modereen  Rue,  I've  no  cause  to  be  grieving 

For  the  little  red  rogues  with  their  tricks  and  their 

thieving. 

The  hounds  they  give  tongue,  and  the  quarry's  in  sight, 
The  hens  on  the  roost  may  sleep  easy  to-night. 
Och,  Modereen  Rue ! 

But  my  blessing  be  on  him.    He  made  the  hounds  follow 
Through  the  woods,  through  the  dales,  over  hill,  over 

hollow, 

It  was  Modereen  Rue  led  them  fast,  led  them  far, 
From  the  glint  of  the  morning  till  eve's  silver  star. 
Och,  Modereen  Rue ! 

But  he  saved  his  red  brush  for  his  own  future  wearing, 
He  slipped  into  a  drain,  and  he  left  the  hounds  swearing. 
Good  luck,  my  fine  fellow,  and  long  may  you  show 
Such  a  clean  pair  of  heels  to  the  hounds  as  they  go. 
Och,  Modereen  Rue  ! 

KATHERINE  TYNAN-HINKSON. 


THE   STARS   STAND  UP 


HE   stars    stand   up   in 

the  air, 

The  sun  and  the  moon  are  set, 
The  sea  that  ebbed  dry  of  its  tide 
Leaves  no  single  pebble  wet ; 
The  cuckoo  keeps  saying  each  hour 
That  she,  my  Storeen,  is  fled, — 
O  Girl  of  the  brave,  free  tresses, 

Far  better  had  you  struck  me 
dead! 

Three    things   have   I  learned 

through  love, 
Sorrow,  and  death,  and  pain, 
My  mind  reminding  me  daily 
I  never  shall  see  you  again  ; 
You  left  me  no  cure  for  my  sickness, 
Yet  I  pray,  though  my  night  be  long, — 
My  sharp  grief  !    and  my  heart  is  broken , — 
That  God  may  forgive  your  wrong. 
316 


THE   STARS   STAND   UP  317 

She  was  sweeter  than  fiddle  and  lute, 
Or  the  shining  of  grass  through  the  dew, 
She  was  soft  as  the  blackbird's  flute 
When  the  light  of  the  day  is  new  ; 
From  her  feet  on  the  lone  hill-top 
I  have  heard  the  honey  dropping  ; 
Why,  Girl,  did  you  come  to  my  door  ? 
Or  why  could  you  not  be  stopping  ? 


THE  LOVE  SMART 

THIS  weariness,  this  gnawing  pain, 

Are  moving  greatly  through  my  brain  ; 
The  tears  down-dropping  from  rny  eyes, 

The  full  of  my  two  shoes  with  sighs. 
I  think  the  Sunday  long,  and  pray 

You  may  come  stepping  down  my  way  ; 
Twice  over  I  my  lover  lack,  — 

When  he  departs  —  till  he  come  back. 

My  thousand  treasures  and  my  love, 

At  break  of  summer  let  us  rove, 
And  watch  the  flickering  twilight  dwell 

Above  the  windings  of  the  dell. 
I  claim  no  gift  of  cows  and  sheep  ; 

But  if  I  ask  of  thee  to  keep 
My  hand  within  thy  circling  arm, 

Where  were  the  harm  ?    where  were  the  harm  ? 


Farewell  !   the  fading  light, 
Would  that  last  night  were  still  to-night  ! 
Would  that  my  darling,  with  his  smile, 

Would  coax  me  to  his  knee  awhile  ! 
Bend  down  and  hear,  my  tale  I'll  tell, 
Could  you  but  keep  my  secret  well  : 
I  fear  my  lover's  gone  from  me  ; 
O  God  and  Mary,  can  this  be  ? 
318 


WELL  FOR  THEE 

WELL  for  thee,  unsighted  bard, 

Not  half  so  hard  thy  plight  as  mine  ; 
Hadst  thou  seen  her  for  whom  I  pine, 

Sickness  like  mine  were  thy  reward. 

O  would  to  God  I  had  been  blind 

Or  e'er  her  twined  locks  caught  my  eye, 
Her  backward  glance  as  she  passed  by — 

Then  had  my  fate  been  less  unkind. 

Till  my  grief  outgrew  all  griefs, 

I  had  pitied  sightless  men  ; 
Now  hold  I  them  happy  and  envy  them — 

In  the  snare  of  her  smile  ensnared  I  lie. 

Oh  !   woe  that  ever  her  face  was  seen  ! 

And  woe  that  I  see  her  not  every  day  ! 
Woe  to  him  who  is  knotted  to  her  alway, 

Woe  to  him  who  is  loosed  from  the  knot,  I  ween. 

Woe  to  him  when  she  comes,  woe  to  him  when  she  goes, 
To  the  lover  who  wins  her,  his  love  is  but  pain  ; 

To  the  lover  she  flies  who  would  call  her  again, 
To  him  and  to  me,  it  is  woe  of  all  woes  ! 
319 


I  AM   RAFTERY 

Anthony  Raftery  died  at  Craughwell.  Co.  Galway,  October  1835 

I  AM  Raftery  the  Poet 

Full  of  hope  and  love, 
With  eyes  that  have  no  light, 

With  gentleness  that  has  no  misery. 

Going  west  upon  my  pilgrimage 

By  the  light  of  my  heart, 
Feeble  and  tired 

To  the  end  of  my  road. 

Behold  me  now, 

And  my  face  to  the  wall, 
A-playing  music 

Unto  empty  pockets. 

DOUGLAS  HYDE. 


DUST  HATH   CLOSED   HELEN'S  EYE 

Anthony  Raftery. 

OING  to  Mass,  by 

the  will  of  God 
The  day  came  wet 
and  the  wind  rose; 
I  met  Mary  Haynes  at  the 

cross  of  Kiltartan 
And  I  fell  in  love  with  her 
then  and  there. 


I    spoke    to  her  kind  and 

mannerly 
•t  As  by  report  was  her  own 

way; 
And  she  said,  "  Raftery,  my 

mind  is  easy, 
You  may  come  to-day  to 

Baile-laoi." 


When  I  heard  her  offer  I  did  not  linger, 
When  her  talk  went  to  my  heart  my  heart  rose. 
We  had  only  to  go  across  the  three  fields, 
We  had  daylight  with  us  to  Baile-laoi. 


322  LOVE  SONGS  AND  POPULAR  POETRY 

The  table  was  laid  with  glasses  and  a  quart  measure  ; 
She  had  fair  hair  and  she  sitting  beside  me, 
And  she  said,  "  Drink,  Raftery,  and  a  hundred  welcomes, 
There  is  a  strong  cellar  in  Baile-laoi." 

O  star  of  light,  and  O  sun  in  harvest, 

0  amber  hair,  O  my  share  of  the  world, 
Will  you  come  with  me  upon  Sunday 

Till  we  agree  together  before  all  the  people  ? 

1  would  not  grudge  you  a  song  every  Sunday  evening, 
Punch  on  the  table  or  wine  if  you  would  drink  it, 
But,  O  King  of  Glory,  dry  the  roads  before  me, 

Till  I  find  the  way  to  Baile-laoi. 

There  is  a  sweet  air  on  the  side  of  the  hill 

When  you  are  looking  down  upon  Baile-laoi ; 

When  you  are  walking  in  the  valley  picking  nuts  and 

blackberries 
There  is  music  of  the  birds  in  it  and  music  of  the  sidhe. 

What  is  the  worth  of  greatness  till  you  have  the 

light 

Of  the  flower  of  the  branch  that  is  by  your  side  ? 
There  is  no  good  to  deny  it  or  to  try  to  hide  it, 
She  is  the  sun  in  the  heavens  who  wounded  my  heart. 

There  is  no  part  of  Ireland  I  did  not  travel 
From  the  rivers  to  the  tops  of  the  mountains, 
To  the  edge  of  Loch  Greine  whose  mouth  is  hidden, 
And  I  saw  no  beauty  that  was  behind  hers. 


DUST   HATH   CLOSED   HELEN'S   EYE     323 

Her  hair  was  shining  and  her  brows  were  shining,  too ; 
Her  face  was  like  herself,  her  mouth  pleasant  and  sweet. 
She  is  my  pride,  and  I  give  her  the  branch, 
She  is  the  shining  flower  of  Baile-laoi. 

It  is  Mary  Haynes,  the  calm  and  easy  woman, 
Her  beauty  in  her  mind  and  in  her  face. 
If  a  hundred  clerks  were  gathered  together, 
They  could  not  write  down  a  half  of  her  ways. 

Lady  GREGORY. 

The  title  is  added  by  Mr.  W.  B.  Yeats  to  an  article 
written  by  him  on  this  poem  in  The  Dome  (New  Series, 
vol.  iv.).  Lady  Gregory  informs  me  that  Mr.  Yeats  has 
slightly  worked  over  her  translation. 


THE  SHINING   POSY 

Anthony  Raftery. 

THERE  is  a  bright  posy  on  the  edge  of  the  quay 
And  she  far  beyond  Deirdre  with  her  pleasant  ways 
Or  if  I  would  say  Helen,  the  queen  of  the  Greeks, 
On  whose  account  hundreds  have  fallen  at  Troy. 
The  flame  and  the  white  in  her  mingled  together, 
And  sweeter  her  mouth  than  cuckoo  on  the  bough, 
And  the  way  she  has  with  her,  where  will  you  find  them 
Since  died  the  pearl  that  was  in  Ballylaoi  ? 

If  you  were  to  see  the  sky-maiden  decked  out 
On  a  fine  sunny  day  in  the  street,  and  she  walking, 
The  light  shining  out  from  her  snow-white  bosom 
Would  give  sight  of  the  eyes  to  a  sightless  man. 
The  love  of  hundreds  is  on  her  brow, 
The  sight  of  her  as  the  gleam  of  the  Star  of  Doom  ; 
If  she  had  been  there  in  the  time  of  the  gods 
It  is  not  to  Venus  the  apple  would  have  gone. 

Her  hair  falling  with  her  down  to  her  knees, 
Twining  and  curling  to  the  mouth  of  her  shoe  ; 
Her  parted  locks,  with  the  grey  of  the  dew  on  them, 
And  her  curls  sweeping  after  her  on  the  road  ; 


THE   SHINING   POSY  325 

She  is  the  coolun  is  brightest  and  most  mannerly 
Of  all  who  ever  opened  eye  or  who  lived  in  life  ; 
And  if  the  country  of  Lord  Lucan  were  given  me, 
By  the  strength  of  my  cause,  the  jewel  should  be  mine. 

Her  form  slender,  chalk-white,  her  cheeks  like  roses, 
And  her  breasts  rounded  over  against  her  heart ; 
Her  neck  and  her  brow  and  her  auburn  hair, 
She  stands  before  us  like  the  dew  of  harvest. 
Virgil,  Cicero,  nor  the  power  of  Homer, 
Would  not  bring  any  to  compare  with  her  bloom  and 
gentle  ways ; 

0  Blossom  of  Youth,  I  am  guilty  with  desire  of  you, 
And  unless  you  come  to  me  I  shall  not  live  a  month. 

Walking  or  dancing,  if  you  were  to  see  the  fair  shoot, 
It  is  to  the  Flower  of  the  Branches  you  would  give  your 

love, 

Her  face  alight,  and  her  heart  without  sorrow, 
And  were  it  not  pleasant  to  be  in  her  company  ? 
The  greatness  of  Samson  or  Alexander 

1  would  not  covet,  surely,  in  place  of  my  desire  ; 
And  if  I  do  not  get  leave  to  talk  to  Mary  Staunton 
I  am  in  doubt  that  short  will  be  my  life. 

She  bade  me  "  Good-morrow  "  early,  with  kindness, 
She  set  a  stool  for  me,  and  not  in  the  corner, 
She  drank  a  drink  with  me,  she  was  the  heart  of  hos- 
pitality, 

At  the  time  that  I  rose  up  to  go  on  my  way. 
I  fell  to  talking  and  discoursing  with  her, 
It  was  mannerly  she  looked  at  me,  the  apple-blossom, 
And  here  is  my  word  of  mouth  to  you,  without  falsehood, 
That  I  have  left  the  branch  with  her  from  Mary  Brown. 


LOVE  IS   A   MORTAL  DISEASE 

MY  grief  and  my  pain  !    a  mortal  disease  is  love, 

Woe,  woe  unto  him  who  must  prove  it  a  month  or  even 

a  day, 
It  hath  broken  my   heart,  and  my  bosom  is  burdened 

with  sighs, 
From  dreaming  of  her  gentle  sleep  hath  forsaken  mine 

eyes. 

I  met  with  the  fairy  host  at  the  liss  beside  Ballyfinnane  ; 
I  asked  them  had  they  a  herb  for  the  curing  of  love's 

cruel  pain. 
They   answered   me   softly   and    mildly,   with    many   a 

pitying  tone, 
"  When  this  torment  comes  into  the  heart  it  never  goes 

out  again." 

It  seems  to  me  long  till  the  tide  washes  up  on  the  strand  ; 
It  seems  to  me  long  till  the  night  shall  fade  into  day  ; 
It  seems  to  me  long  till  the  cocks  crow  on  every  hand ; 
And  rather  than  the  world  were  I  close  beside  my  love. 

Do  not  marry  the  grey  old  man,  but  marry  the  young 

man,  dear ; 
Marry  the  )ad  who  loves  you,  my  grief,  though  he  live 

not  out  the  year  ; 

326 


LOVE   IS   A   MORTAL   DISEASE  327 

Youthful  you  are,  and  kind,  but  your  mind  is  not  yet  come 

to  sense, 
And  if  you  live  longer,  the  lads  will  be  following  you. 

My  woe  and  my  plight !  where  to-night  is  the  snowdrift 

and  frost  ? 
Or  even  I  and  my  love  together  breasting  the  waves  of 

the  sea ; 

Without  bark,  without  boat,  without  any  vessel  with  me, 
But  I  to  be  swimming,  and  my  arm  to  be  circling  her 

waist! 


I  AM  WATCHING  MY  YOUNG 
CALVES  SUCKING 

Douglas  Hyde. 

I  AM  watching  my  young  calves  sucking  ; 

Who  are  you  that  would  put  me  out  of  my  luck  ? 
Can  I  not  be  walking,  can  I  not  be  walking, 

Can  I  not  be  walking  on  my  own  farm-lands  ? 

I  will  not  for  ever  go  back  before  you, 

If  I  must  needs  be  submissive  to  thee,  great  is  my 

grief; 
If  I  cannot  be  walking,  if  I  cannot  be  walking, 

If  I  cannot  be  walking  on  my  own  farm-lands. 

Little  heed  I  pay,  and  'tis  little  my  desire, 

Thy  fine  blue  cloak  and  thy  bright  bird's  plumes, 

If  I  cannot  be  walking,  if  I  cannot  be  walking, 
If  I  cannot  be  walking  on  my  own  farm-lands  ! 

There  is  a  day  coming,  it  is  plain  to  my  eyes, 

When  there  will  not  be  amongst  us  the  mean  likes 
of  you ; 

But  each  will  be  walking,  each  will  be  walking, 
Wherever  he  will  on  his  own  farm-lands. 


THE   NARROW   ROAD 

Douglas  Hyde. 

I  was  happy, 

And  joyous  with  that, 
Now  I  am  sorrowful 
Weary  and  sick. 

Thinking  on  the  colleen 
By  night  and  by  day, 

Hurt  by  the  colleen, 
Wounded  with  love. 

The  sight  of  her  eyes, 
The  sweetness  of  her 

voice, 
It  is    these   that   have 

stricken  ne 
And  left  me  without  guidance. 

A  colleen  like  she  is 

Is  not  in  this  life, 
And  she  herself  has  left 

Myself  without  sense. 


330  LOVE  SONGS  AND  POPULAR  POETRY 

A  colleen  like  she  is 

Is  not  in  this  world  ; 
Vein  of  my  own  heart 

Whom  I  have  chosen. 

Little  hand  of  my  love — 

It  is  whiter  than  snow  ; 
She  hath  left  us  with  wounds 

And  with  wandering  of  the  mind. 

Three  long  months 

Almost,  am  I  lying  ; 
I  am  pierced  with  her  arrows 

And  my  heart  in  torment. 

0  God  of  Graces, 
Listen  to  my  prayer, 

Give  death  to  me 
Or  give  me  her. 

Look  on  my  lamentations, 

Look  on  my  tears  ; 
Were  not  my  thoughts  on  thee,  Storeen, 

All  these  years  ? 

Look  on  my  lamentations, 
Listen  to  me,  Aroon, 

1  am  as  a  sheep, 

A  sheep  without  its  lamb  ! 

Wilt  thou  be  hard, 

Colleen,  as  thou  art  tender  ? 

Wilt  thou  be  without  pity 
On  us  for  ever  ? 


THE   NARROW   ROAD  331 

Listen  to  me,  Noireen, 

Listen,  Aroon ; 
Put  some  word  of  healing 

From  thy  quiet  mouth. 

I  am  in  the  pathway 

That  is  dark  and  narrow, 
The  little  path  that  has  guided 

Thousands  to  slumber. 


FORSAKEN 

Douglas  Hyde. 

OH,  if  there  were  in  this  wide  world 

One  little  place  at  all, 
To  be  my  own,  my  own  alone, 

My  own  over  all ; 
Great  were  the  joy,  the  comfort  great, 

And  me  so  lone, 
With  no  place  in  the  world  to  say 

"  This  is  my  own." 

Sad  it  is  to  be  knowing  this, 

For  any  man,  and  woe, 
That  there  is  not  in  life  for  him 

Liking  or  love  below  ; 
That  there  is  not  in  the  world  for  him 

A  hand  or  a  head 
That  would  be  doing  a  turn  for  him 

Alive  or  dead. 


Sharp  it  is  and  sorrowful, 
griei 


FORSAKEN  333 

Sad  it  is  and  sorrowful 

Past  all  belief. 
'Tis  all  the  same  how  you  are 

To  the  passer-by, 
'Tis  all  the  same  to  you,  at  last, 

To  live  or  die. 


I  FOLLOW  A  STAR 

Seosamh  mac  Catbmhaoil. 

I  FOLLOW  a  star 
Burning  deep  in  the  blue, 
A  sign  on  the  hills 
Lit  for  me  and  for  you  ! 

Moon-red  is  the  star, 
Halo-winged  like  a  rood, 
Christ's  heart  in  its  heart  set, 
Streaming  with  blood. 

Follow  the  gilly 

Beyond  to  the  west ; 

He  leads  where  the  Christ  lies 

On  Mary's  white  breast. 

King,  priest,  and  prophet — 
A  child,  and  no  more — 
Adonai  the  Maker ! 
Come,  let  us  adore. 

Translation  by  the  author. 


LULLABIES  AND  WORKING  SONGS 


NURSE'S  SONG 

Traditional. 

LEEP,  my  child,  my  darling  child,  my 

lovely  child,  sleep ! 
The  sea  sleepeth  on  the  green  fields, 
The  moon  sleepeth  on  the  blue  waters, 
Sleep,   my   child,   my   darling 
child,  my  lovely  child,  sleep  ! 


Sleep,  my  child ! 
The  morning  sleepeth  upon 

a  bed  of  roses, 
The  evening  sleepeth  on  the 

tops  of  the  dark  hills  ; 
Sleep,    my    child,  my  darling 
child,  child  of   my  heart's 
love,  sleep  ! 


Sleep,  my  child ! 
The  winds  sleep  in  the  rocky 

caverns, 
The    stars    sleep    on    their 

pillow  of  clouds, 
Sleep,  my  child,  my  darling  child,  my  little  child,  sleep  ! 


338    LULLABIES   AND   WORKING   SONGS 

Sleep,  my  child ! 

The  mist  sleepeth  on  the  bosom  of  the  valley, 
The  broad  lake  beneath  the  shade  of  the  trees, 

Sleep,  my  child,  my  darling  child,  my  tender  child,  sleep  ! 

Sleep,  my  child ! 

The  flower  sleeps,  while  the  night-dew  falls, 
The  wild  birds  sleep  upon  the  mountains ; 

Sleep,  my  child,  my  darling  child,  my  blessed  child,  sleep  ! 

Sleep,  my  child ! 

The  burning  tear  sleepeth  upon  the  cheek  of  sorrow 

But  thy  sleep  is  not  the  sleep  of  tears, 
Sleep,  my  child,  my  darling  child,  child  of  my  bosom, 
sleep  ! 

Sleep,  my  child ! 

Sleep  in  quiet,  sleep  in  joy,  my  darling, 
May  thy  sleep  be  never  the  sleep  of  sorrow  ! 

Sleep,  my  child,  my  darling  child,  my  lovely  child,  sleep  ! 


A  SLEEP  SONG 

Traditional. 

Deirin  de,  Deirin  de  ! 
The  brown  bittern  speaks  in  the  bog  ; 

Deirin  de,  Deirin  de  ! 
The  night-jar  is  abroad  on  the  heath. 

Deirin  de,  Deirin  de  ! 
Kine  will  go  west  at  dawn  of  day  ; 

Deirin  de,  Deirin  de  ! 
And  my  child  will  go  to  the  pasture  to  mind  them. 

Deirin  de,  Deirin  de  ! 
Moon  will  rise  and  sun  will  set ; 

Deirin  de,  Deirin  de  ! 
Kine  will  come  east  at  end  of  day. 

Deirin  de,  Deirin  de  ! 
I  will  let  my  child  go  gathering  blackberries, 

Deirin  de,  Deirin  de  ! 
If  he  sleep  softly  till  the  ring  of  day  ! 

P.  H.  PEARSE. 


THE  CRADLE   OF   GOLD 

I'D  rock  my  own  sweet  childie  to  rest 

In  a  cradle  of  gold  on  the  bough  of  the  willow, 
To  the  shoheen  ho  !    of  the  Wind  of  the  West 
And  the  lulla  lo  !   of  the  blue  sea  billow. 
Sleep,  baby  dear ! 
Sleep  without  fear ! 
Mother  is  here  beside  your  pillow. 

I'd  put  my  own  sweet  childie  to  float 

In  a  silver  boat  on  the  beautiful  river, 
Where  a  shoheen  !   whisper  the  white  cascades 
And  a  lulla  lo  !   the  green  flags  shiver. 
Sleep,  baby  dear  ! 
Sleep  without  fear ! 
Mother  is  here  with  you  for  ever  ! 

Shoheen  ho  !   to  the  rise  and  fall 

Of  mother's  bosom,  'tis  sleep  has  bound  you  ! 
And  oh,  my  child,  what  cosier  nest 

For  rosier  rest  could  love  have  found  you  ? 
Sleep,  baby  dear ! 
Sleep  without  fear ! 
Mother's  two  arms  are  close  around  you  ! 

ALFRED  PERCEVAL  GRAVES. 


RURAL  SONG 

I  WISH  the  shepherd's  pet  were  mine, 
I  wish  the  shepherd's  pet  were  mine, 
I  wish  the  shepherd's  pet  were  mine, 
The  pretty  white  lamb  in  the  clover. 
And  oh !   I  hail,  I  hail  thee, 
And  oh  !   I  hail,  I  hail  thee, 
The  love  of  my  heart  for  ever  thou  art, 
Thou  little  pet  of  thy  mother. 

I  wish  that  scores  of  kine  were  mine, 
I  wish  that  scores  of  kine  were  mine, 
I  wish  that  scores  of  kine  were  mine, 
And  Kathleen,  the  love  of  her  mother. 
And  oh  !    I  hail,  I  hail  thee, 
And  oh  !   I  hail,  I  hail  thee, 
The  love  of  my  heart  for  ever  thou  art, 
Thou  little  pet  of  thy  mother. 


PLOUGHING  SONG 

TAILS  MAN. 

GOAD  her,  and  whip  her,  and  drive, 
The  old  woman's  little  brown  mare, 
Stand  up  on  the  plough,  look  alive, 
And  see  if  our  dinner  is  there. 

HEADSMAN. 

The  corn  is  a-reaping, 

Goad  her  and  whip  her  and  drive. 
The  stocks  are  a-heaping, 

Goad  her  and  whip  her  and  drive. 
The  corn  is  a-binding, 

Goad  her  and  whip  her  and  drive. 
In  the  mill  it  is  grinding, 

Goad  her  and  whip  her  and  drive. 
We  soon  shall  be  feeding, 

Goad  her  and  whip  her  and  drive. 
For  the  flour  is  a-kneading, 

Goad  her  and  whip  her  and  drive. 
The  bread  is  a-baking, 

Goad  her  and  whip  her  and  drive. 
Our  dinner  we  are  taking, — 

She's  the  best  little  mare  alive  ! 


PLOUGHING   SONG  343 


TAILS  MAN. 

Whistle  and  shout  with  zest ! 

The  little  brown  mare  is  good  ! 

Unyoke  her,  and  give  her  a  rest, 

While  we're  stretching  and  getting  our  food 


A  SPINNING-WHEEL  DITTY 

These  verses,  improvised  to  the  hum  of  the  wheel, 
are  flung  from  girl  to  girl  as  they  sit  spinning.  The 
references  are  purely  personal,  and  the  refrain,  which  is 
sung  by  all  the  spinners,  has  no  special  meaning. 

FIRST  GIRL. 

Mallo  lero,  and  eambo  nero, 

I  crossed  the  wood  as  the  day  was  dawning  ; 

Mallo  lero,  and  eambo  nero. 

SECOND  GIRL. 

Mallo  lero,  and  eambo  nero, 

No  doubt  John  O'Connell  had  had  good  warning  1 

Mallo  lero,  and  eambo  nero. 

FIRST  GIRL. 

Mallo  lero,  and  eambo  nero, 

Oh  !   John  may  go  hang,  it's  not  me  he  will  catch  ! 

Mallo  lero,  and  eambo  nero. 

344 


A  SPINNING-WHEEL   DITTY          345 

SECOND  GIRL. 

Mallo  lero,  and  eambo  nero, 

You  mannerless  girl,  he'll  be  more  than  your  match  ! 

Mallo  lero,  and  eambo  nero. 

FIRST  GIRL. 

Mallo  lero,  and  eambo  nero, 

Come,  come  now,  leave  off,  or  get  me  my  own  man  I 

Mallo  lero,  and  eambo  nero. 

SECOND  GIRL 

Mallo  lero,  and  eambo  nero, 

Well,  what  do  you  think  of  Thomas  O'Madigan  ? 

Mallo  lero,  and  eambo  nero. 

FIRST  GIRL. 

Mallo  lero,  and  eambo  nero, 

I  hail  him,  and  claim  him,  may  we  never  be  parted ! 

Mallo  lero,  and  eambo  nero. 

SECOND  GIRL. 

Mallo  lero,  and  eambo  nero, 

Go  east  or  go  west,  may  you  still  be  true-hearted ! 

Mallo  lero,  and  eambo  nero. 

THIRD  GIRL. 

Mallo  lero,  and  eambo  nero, 

Go  east  and  go  west,  and  find  me  my  love,  too ! 

Mallo  lero,  and  eambo  nero. 


346    LULLABIES   AND   WORKING   SONGS 


FOURTH  GIRL. 

Mallo  lero,  and  eambo  nero, 

There's  Donall  O' Flaherty,  but  I  doubt  will  he  take  you  ! 

Mallo  lero,  and  eambo  nero. 

FIFTH  GIRL. 

Mallo  lero,  and  eambo  nero, 

The  man  is  too  good,  he'll  be  courting  elsewhere  ! 

Mallo  lero,  and  eambo  nero. 

THIRD  GIRL. 

Mallo  lero,  and  eambo  nero, 

There's  no  tree  in  the  wood,  but  its  equal  is  there  ! 

Mallo  lero,  and  eambo  nero. 


NOTES 


NOTES 

"  The  Colloquy  of  the  Two  Sages,"  edited  by  Dr. 
Whitley  Stokes  from  the  Book  of  Le luster,  p.  i86a,  is 
one  of  the  most  archaic  pieces  in  tone  that  have  come 
down  to  us.  It  represents  the  discussion  between  an 
aged  poet  and  a  young  aspirant  as  to  the  sources  of 
poetic  inspiration,  and  shows  us  that  the  gifts  of  the 
bard  were  highly  regarded  as  the  direct  endowment  of 
the  gods.  Original  in  Rev.  Celtique,  No.  xxviii.  As  in 
the  following  poem,  I  have  made  use  of  the  scribal  glosses 
or  explanations  wherever  they  seemed  to  throw  light 
upon  the  original. 

"  Amorgen  sang."  Professor  John  MacNeill  has  most 
kindly  made  a  fresh  collation  of  the  manuscripts  con- 
taining this  obscure  poem  for  my  use.  Parts,  especially 
from  line  20  onward,  are  doubtful.  I  have  incorporated 
with  the  text  such  of  the  glosses  as  appear  to  make  the 
meaning  more  intelligible,  but  the  glosses  themselves 
are  mere  scribes'  guesses,  often  bad  ones,  at  the  sense 
of  a  text  they  did  not  understand.  This  poem,  though 
ascribed  to  the  earliest  traditional  poet  of  Ireland,  is, 
Prof.  MacNeill  considers,  rather  pseudo-archaic,  than  of 
really  great  antiquity.  The  allusion  to  "  Tetra's  kine," 
which  is  explained  in  the  gloss  to  mean  "  the  fish  of  the 
sea,"  alludes  to  Tetra  as  Ruler  of  the  Ocean  ;  in  the 
"Colloquy"  we  found  him  ruling  in  the  assemblies  of 
the  dead.  The  connection  between  the  ocean  and  the 
invisible  world  is  constant  in  Irish  tradition.  The  poem 
appears  to  be  an  assertion  of  the  Druid's  powers,  pre- 
paratory to  the  incantation  for  good  fishing  which  follows 

349 


350      THE  POEM-BOOK  OF  THE  GAEL 

immediately  in  most  manuscripts.  The  final  lines  are 
an  inquiry  into  the  origin  of  created  things,  matter  on 
which  the  bard  or  Druid  claimed  superior  enlightenment. 

"  The  Song  of  Childbirth  "  and  the  succeeding  "  Greet- 
ing to  the  New-born  Babe  "  are  taken  from  the  piece 
known  as  "  The  Birth  of  Conchobhar "  (Compert  Con- 
chobhar),  edited  from  Stowe  MS.  992,  by  Prof.  Kuno 
Meyer  in  Rev.  Celt.  vi.  pp.  173-182. 

"  What  is  Love  ?  "  From  the  story  called  the  "  Woo- 
ing of  Etain"  (Tochmarc  Etaine).  Original  in  Irische 
Texte,  i.  p.  124. 

"  Summons  to  Cuchulain."  From  the  "  Sickbed  of 
Cuchulain  "  (Serglige  Conculaind).  Original,  ibid.,  p.  216. 
Overcome  with  fairy  spells,  the  hero  lies  fast  bound  in 
heavy  slumber ;  the  song  is  an  appeal  to  him  to  throw 
off  the  charm  and  to  arise. 

"  Laegh's  Description  of  Fairy-land."  From  the  same 
story,  ibid.,  p.  218.  Laegh  is  Cuchulain's  charioteer, 
who  went  into  fairy-land  instead  of  his  master,  and 
returns  to  extol  its  beauty. 

"  The  Lamentation  of  Fand  when  she  is  about  to  leave 
Cuchulain."  From  the  dramatic  incident  in  the  same 
story,  in  which  Fand,  Queen  of  Fairy-land,  and  Emer, 
Cuchulain's  mortal  wife,  struggle  for  the  affection  of  the 
hero,  after  Cuchulain's  return  from  fairy-land.  Each 
woman  fully  recognises  the  nobility  of  the  other ;  and 
Fand's  parting  song,  in  which  she  restores  him  to  Emer, 
is  one  of  lofty  renunciation. 

"Midir's  Call  to  Fairy-land."  From  the  story  called 
the  "  WTooing  of  Etain  "  (Tochmarc  Etaine),  ibid.,  p.  132. 

"  Song  of  the  Fairies."  From  A.  H.  Leahy's  Heroic 
Romances  of  Ireland  (D.  Nutt,  1905),  p.  29,  taken  from 
the  same  tale.  Etairi  was  wife  of  Eochad  (pron.  Yochee), 
King  of  Ireland,  but  Mider,  King  of  Fairy-Ian  J,  fell  in 
love  with  her.  He  won  an  entry  into  the  palace  by 


NOTES  351 

playing  chess  with  her  husband,  who  demanded  from 
Mider  as  the  stake  for  which  they  played  that  the  fairy 
hosts  should  clear  away  the  rocks  and  stones  from  the 
plains  of  Meath,  remove  the  rushes  which  made  the  land 
barren,  build  a  causeway  across  the  bog  of  Lamrach,  and 
perform  other  services  useful  to  his  realm.  The  song  is 
sung  by  the  fairies  while  they  are  performing  this  heavy 
task.  The  final  stake  is  won  by  Mider,  who  asks  Etain 
as  his  prize. 

"  The  Lamentation  of  Deirdre,"  when  her  husband  and 
two  sons  had  been  slain  by  King  Conchobhar.  She 
recalls  the  happy  days  spent  with  her  husband  in  Alba 
or  Scotland,  on  Lough  Etive,  and  compares  it  to  her 
present  misery  in  the  house  of  the  King.  Original, 
Irische  Texte,  i.  pp.  77-81.  In  all  the  above  poems  there 
are  many  difficult  and  obscure  passages. 

"Take  my  Tidings."  A  ninth  century  poem,  edited 
and  translated  by  Dr.  Kuno  Meyer  in  his  Four  Songs 
of  Summer  and  Winter  (D.  Nutt,  1903),  and  by  Dr. 
Whitley  Stokes  in  Rev.  Celt.  xx.  p.  258.  It  is  ascribed 
to  Fionn  in  the  commentary  on  the  "  Amra  Coluim 
Cille."  Mr.  Graves'  poem  will  be  found  in  his  7mA 
Poems,  i.  p.  i  (Maunsel  &  Co.,  Dublin). 

"  Second  Winter  Song."  Text  and  translation  in  Dr. 
Kuno  Meyer's  Four  Songs  of  Summer  and  Winter.  A  longer 
poem  on  similar  lines  is  to  be  found  in  the  tale  called  the 
"Hiding  of  the  Hill  of  Howth,"  Rev.  Celt.  xi.  p.  125, 
reprinted  in  his  Ancient  Irish  Poetry  (Constable),  p.  57  ; 
but  in  the  former  version  the  complaint  of  the  lazy  ser- 
vant-lad is  answered  by  a  fine  song  in  which  Fionn  praises 
the  signs  of  coming  spring  in  earth  and  air. 

"  In  Praise  of  May."  Original  and  translation  pub- 
lished by  Dr.  K.  Meyer  from  the  tale  called  "  The  Boyish 
Exploits  of  Finn  "  in  Rev.  Celt.  v.  p.  195.  It  is  said  to 
have  been  composed  by  Fionn  after  he  received  inspira- 
tion by  eating  the  "  Salmon  of  Knowledge  "  at  the  River 


352      THE   POEM-BOOK   OF  THE  GAEL 

Boyne.    Mr.   Rolleston's  poem  is  to   be  found  in   his 
Sea-Spray  (Maunsel,  1909). 

"  The  Isle  of  Arran."  The  Arran  here  spoken  of  is  the 
Scottish  island  of  that  name.  The  Fianna  were  accus- 
tomed to  spend  part  of  the  autumn  and  winter  hunting 
in  that  island.  The  poem  occurs  in  the  long  Ossianic 
tract  called  "  The  Colloquy  of  the  Ancients,"  published 
by  Standish  Hayes  O'Grady  in  Silva  Gadelica  (Williams 
and  Norgate,  1892).  Text,  p.  102 ;  translation,  p.  109. 

"  The  Parting  of  Goll  with  his  Wife."  From  Duanaire 
Finn,  edited  by  Prof.  John  MacNeill  (Irish  Texts  Soc.,  vii., 
1908),  pp.  23  and  121.  Goll  was  leader  of  the  Connaught 
Fians  and  was  opposed  to  Fionn,  the  chief  of  the  Leinster 
warriors.  He  is  described  as  a  man  of  lofty  disposition 
and  great  valour.  In  this  poem  he  is  standing,  driven 
to  bay  by  his  enemies,  oa  a  bare  rocky  promontory,  his 
wife  only  beside  him,  cut  off  from  all  hope  of  escape. 
Few  poems  relating  to  Goll  remain  in  Ireland,  but  a  good 
many  survive  in  the  Western  Highlands  of  Scotland. 

' '  Youth  and  Age."  Ibid.,  pp.  80  and  194.  It  is  Oisin 
(Ossian)  who  here  laments  his  departed  youth. 

' '  Chill  Winter. ' '  From  the ' '  Colloquy  of  the  Ancients, ' ' 
Silva  Gadelica,  text,  p.  172  ;  translation,  p.  192. 

"  The  Sleep-song  of  Grainne."  From  Duanaire  Finn, 
pp.  85  and  198.  Dermot,  who  has  carried  off  Grainne, 
the  wife  of  Fionn,  is  lying  down  to  rest  in  the  forest,  when 
Grainne  hears  the  approach  of  their  pursuers.  She  sings 
over  him  this  passionate  lullaby,  in  which  the  restless 
activities  and  foreboding  terrors  of  the  animal  world  are 
aptly  used  to  heighten  the  sense  of  their  own  danger. 

"  The  slaying  of  Conbeg,  Fionn's  beloved  hound." 
Original  in  Gaelic  Journal,  ix.  No.  104,  Feb.  1899,  p.  328  ; 
the  poem  occurs  in  the  "Colloquy  of  the  Ancients," 
where  the  readings  are  slightly  different  (S»7fa  Gadelica, 
text.  p.  143). 


NOTES  353 

"The  Fairies'  Lullaby."  Original  in  Waifs  and 
Strays  of  Celtic  Tradition,  Argyleshire  Series,  No.  iv. 
(David  Nutt,  1891).  It  was  collected  in  Argyleshire  by 
John  Gregorson  Campbell. 

"  The  Lay  of  the  Forest  Trees."  Original  in  Silva 
Gadelica,  i.  p.  245  ;  trans.,  ii.  p.  278.  This  curious  poem, 
which  contains  much  folk-lore  regarding  forest-trees, 
arose  out  of  the  gathering  of  wood  for  a  fire  in  the  open 
air,  by  a  servant  or  "Man  of  Smoke,"  as  he  is  called. 
He  accidentally  threw  upon  it  a  block  around  which 
woodbine  had  twined.  This  called  forth  a  protest  from 
the  onlookers,  who  declared  that  the  burning  of  the 
woodbine  would  certainly  bring  ill-luck. 

"  St.  Patrick's  Breastplate."  See  Dr.  Kuno  Meyer's 
Ancient  Irish  Poetry  (Constable),  pp.  25-7.  Original  in 
Stokes'  and  Strachan's  Thesaurus  Palaeohibernicus,  ii. 
p.  354.  Probably  eighth  century. 

"  Patrick's  Blessing  on  Munster,"  ninth  century. 
Original  in  Dr.  Whitley  Stokes'  Tripartite  Life  of  St. 
Patrick,  p.  216;  literal  translation  in  Dr.  Kuno  Meyer's 
A  ncient  Irish  Poetry,  p.  29.  The  present  poetic  rendering, 
kindly  contributed  to  my  book  by  Mr.  A.  P.  Graves,  has 
not  hitherto  been  published. 

"  Columcille's  Farewell  to  Aran."  See  Dr.  Douglas 
Hyde's  Three  Sorrows  of  Story-telling  (T.  Fisher  Unwin, 
1895),  pp.  146-8. 

"  Columba  in  lona."  Printed  in  William  Skene's 
Celtic  Scotland,  ii.  p.  92,  from  an  Irish  manuscript  in  the 
Burgundian  Library,  Brussels.  It  bears  the  ascription 
"  Columcille  fecit,"  and  was  transcribed  and  translated 
by  O'Curry  for  Dr.  Todd.  Many  poems  are  ascribed  to 
the  Saint,  but  the  language  of  most  of  them  is  later  than 
his  time. 

"  Hymn  to  the  Dawn."  From  Silva  Gadelica,  by 
Standish  Hayes  O'Grady  (Williams  &  Norgate);  original, 
vol.  i.  p.  56  ;  literal  trans.,  ii.  p.  59.  The  hymn  was 

z 


354      THE   POEM-BOOK  OF  THE   GAEL 

composed  by  St.  Cellach  on  the  morning  on  which  he 
was  slain  by  his  old  friends  and  fellow-students,  who  had 
been  bought  over  to  destroy  him. 

"  The  Song  of  Manchan  the  Hermit."  Original  in 
£riu,  i.  p.  39.  A  ninth  century  poem,  with  translation 
by  Dr.  Kuno  Meyer. 

"  A  Prayer."  Original  and  literal  translation  by  Miss 
Mary  E.  Byrne  in  Eriu,  ii.,  Part  i.  p.  89. 

"The  Loves  of  Liadan  and  Curithir."  This  touching 
poem  illustrates  the  tyrannical  use  sometimes  made  of 
their  authority  by  the  monks  of  the  ancient  Irish  Church. 
St.  Cummine,  who  was  the  confessor  or  "  soul-friend  " 
of  the  lovers,  seems  to  have  been  a  hard  and  censorious 
man.  He  lived  in  the  first  half  of  the  seventh  century. 
The  poem,  as  we  have  it,  is  of  the  ninth  century.  Edited 
with  translation  by  Dr.  Kuno  Meyer  (D.  Nutt,  1902). 
The  love  song  has  been  reprinted  in  his  Ancient  Irish 
Poetry. 

"  The  Lay  of  Prince  Marvan."  This  song  takes  the 
form  of  a  colloquy  between  Marvan,  who  had  left  his 
royal  station  to  adopt  a  hermit  life,  and  his  brother 
King  Guaire  of  Connaught  (d.  662).  Guaire,  visiting 
him  in  his  retirement,  inquires  why  he  prefers  to  sleep 
in  a  hut  rather  than  in  the  comfort  of  a  kingly  palace  ; 
in  reply  Marvan  bursts  forth  into  a  song  in  praise  of 
his  retired  woodland  life.  Original  in  King  and  Hermit, 
edited  by  Dr.  Kuno  Meyer  (D.  Nutt,  1901);  translation 
reprinted  in  Ancient  Irish  Poetry,  p.  47. 

"  The  Song  of  Crede."  Text  and  translation  in  Eriu,  ii. 
p.  1 5  ;  its  editor,  Dr.  Kuno  Meyer,  ascribes  it  to  the  tenth 
century.  I  have  to  thank  Mr.  A.  P.  Graves  for  most 
kindly  giving  me  permission  to  use  his  unpublished  poem. 

"  The  Student  and  his  Cat,"  eighth  or  ninth  century. 
Written  on  the  margin  of  a  codex  of  St.  Paul's  Epistles, 
in  the  monastery  of  Carinthia.  Original  and  translation 


NOTES  355 

in  Stokes*  and  Strachan's  Thesaurus  Palaeohibernicus,  ii. 
P-  293- 

"  Song  of  the  Seven  Archangels."  Original  in  Eriu,  ii., 
Part  i.  pp.  92-4,  with  literal  translation  by  Thomas 
P.  O'Nowlan.  Mr.  Ernest  Rhys'  poetical  version,  kindly 
contributed  by  him  to  this  book,  has  not  hitherto  been 
published. 

"  Saints  of  Four  Seasons."  Original  in  Erin,  i.,  Part  ii. 
pp.  226-7,  with  translation  by  Miss  Mary  E.  Byrne. 
Mr.  P.  J.  McCall's  poetical  version  is  printed  in  his  Irish 
Fireside  Songs  (M.  H.  Gill,  Dublin,  1911). 

"The  Feathered  Hermit."  Original  printed  by  Dr. 
K.  Meyer  in  Gaelic  Journal,  iv.,  No.  40,  February  1892, 
from  a  marginal  note  on  Harl.  MS.  5280  (Brit.  Mus.). 

"  An  Aphorism."     Ibid. ;  also  from  a  marginal  note. 

"  The  Blackbird."  Marginal  note  from  a  copy  of 
Priscian  in  the  monastery  of  St.  Gall  in  Switzerland. 
Original  in  Stokes'  and  Strachan's  Thesaurus  Palaeo- 
hibernicus, p.  290. 

"  Deus  Meus."  Printed  by  Dr.  Whitley  Stokes  in  the 
Calendar  of  (Engus,  clxxxv.  It  is  found  written  on  the 
margin  of  the  Leabhar  Breac,  facs.,  p.  101,  and  is  there 
ascribed  to  Maelisu  ua  Brolcan  (d.  1086).  Dr.  George 
Sigerson's  poetical  rendering  will  be  found  in  his  Bards 
of  the  Gael  and  Gall  (T.  Fisher  Unwin,  1897),  p.  193. 

"  The  Soul's  Desire."  Original  and  literal  translation 
by  Dr.  Kuno  Meyer  in  the  Gaelic  Journal,  vol.  v.,  No.  6, 
1894,  p.  95.  Though  printed  from  comparatively  late 
copies,  the  hymn  gives  the  impression  of  being  ancient. 

"  Song  of  the  Sea."  Original  and  literal  translation  by 
Dr.  Kuno  Meyer  in  Otia  Merseiana  (Liverpool),  ii.  p.  76. 
It  is  ascribed  to  the  poet  Ruman,  who  died  707,  but  the 
editor  believes  it  to  be  of  the  eleventh  century. 

"  Lament  of  the  Old  Woman  of  Beare."    From  Dr. 


356      THE  POEM-BOOK  OF  THE  GAEL 

Kuno  Meyer's  text  and  translation  in  Otia  Merseiana,  i. 
p.  119  ff.  It  has  since  been  reprinted  in  the  author's 
Selections  from  Early  Irish  Poetry,  pp.  88-91.  The  editor 
would  put  the  poem  down  to  the  late  tenth  century. 

"  Gormliath's  Lament  for  Nial  Black-knee."  From 
the  Scottish  Book  of  the  Dean  of  Lismore,  edited  by  Rev. 
Thos.  M'Lauchlan. 

"  The  Mother's  Lament."  First  printed  by  Rev. 
Edmund  Hogan  in  his  Latin  Lives  of  the  Irish  Saints 
(Todd  Lectures,  V.,  1894);  see  also  Gaelic  Journal,  iv. 
p.  89,  and  Kuno  Meyer's  Ancient  Irish  Poetry,  p.  42. 
Eleventh  century  ?  Mr.  Graves  has  kindly  given  me 
permission  to  use  his  excellent  unpublished  version. 

"  Consecration."  Original  from  the  Book  of  the  Dean 
of  Lismore,  a  collection  of  poems  made  in  the  Western 
Islands  about  1512  by  Sir  James  McGregor,  Dean  of 
Lismore,  Argyleshire,  p.  121.  It  contains  many  Irish 
poems.  This  and  the  two  following  poems  are  ascribed 
to  Murdoch  O'Daly,  called  "  Muredach  Albanach,"  or 
Murdoch  the  Scot,  on  account  of  his  long  residence  in 
that  country.  He  is  styled  "  Bard  of  Erin  and  Alba." 
He  was  a  Connaught  poet,  who  ended  a  stormy  career 
by  retiring  to  the  Irish  monastery  of  Knockmoy.  It  is 
probable  that  these  religious  poems,  if  not  actually 
written  by  him,  were  composed  about  his  period. 

"  Teach  me,  O  Trinity,"  ibid.,  p.  123. 

"The  Shaving  of  Murdoch,"  ibid.,  p.  158  note,  from  a 
translation  made  by  Standish  H.  O'Grady.  This  curious 
poem  refers  to  the  tonsuring  of  the  bard  and  his  con- 
temporary Connaught  chieftain,  Cathal  of  the  Red  Hand, 
when  they  entered  the  monastery  of  Knockmoy  together. 
In  Scotland  Murdoch  is  remembered  as  the  first  of  the 
Macvurrachs,  bards  to  the  Macdonalds  of  Clanranald. 
He  lived  1180-1225,  and  Cathal  of  the  Red  Hand,  1184- 
1225. 

''Eileen  Aroon."     Original  in  Hardimen,  i.  p.  264;  it 


NOTES  357 

should  be  compared  with  the  version,  ibid.,  p.  211.  The 
present  is  the  oldest  form.  Carol  O'Daly,  who  composed  it, 
was  an  accomplished  Connaught  gentleman,  whose  desire 
to  marry  Eileen  Kavanagh  was  frustrated  by  her  friends. 
He  fled  the  country,  but  returned,  disguised  as  a  harper, 
on  the  eve  of  her  marriage  to  another  suitor,  and  entered 
the  guest-chamber.  He  poured  out  this  impassioned 
appeal  with  such  good  effect,  that  Eileen  fled  with  him 
that  night.  The  last  lines  are  a  welcome  to  her  in  re- 
sponse to  her  avowal  of  love.  The  air  is  very  ancient ; 
in  Scotland  it  is  known  as  "  Robin  Adair." 

"  The  Downfall  of  the  Gael."  Original  in  Hardiman's 
Irish  Minstrelsy,  ii.  p.  102.  O'Gnive,  bard  of  the  O'Neills 
of  Clandaboy,  accompanied  Shane  O'Neill  to  London  in 
i  562,  on  the  occasion  of  that  chief's  visit  to  Queen  Eliza- 
beth. The  poem  is  a  lament  over  the  condition  of  Ireland 
and  the  inaction  of  the  chiefs.  Sir  Samuel  Ferguson's 
rendering  will  be  found  in  Lays  of  the  Western  Gael 
(Sealy,  Bryers  &  Walker.  1888),  p.  136. 

"  Address  to  Brian  O'Rourke  of  the  Bulwarks  "  (na 
murtha),  a  poem  of  seventy  quatrains  from  Egerton  MS. 
iii.,  art.  85.  Dr.  Standish  Hayes  O'Grady  has  given 
specimens  of  this  poem  in  his  valuable  Catalogue  of  Irish 
MSS.  in  the  British  Museum,  pp.  412-20.  Another  poem 
addressed  to  the  same  chief  will  be  found  in  Hardiman, 
ii.  pp.  266-305,  by  John  mac  Torna  O'Mulchonaire. 
The  writer  of  the  present  poem,  Teigue  O'Higgin,  called 
Teigue  "  Dall,"  i.e.  the  Blind,  on  account  of  his  blindness, 
is  one  of  the  best  of  all  the  tribal  poets  of  Ireland.  He 
was  poet  to  the  chiefs  of  Co.  Sligo,  but  he  came  to  an 
untimely  end  on  account  of  a  satire  made  by  him  on  the 
O'Haras,  who  had  ill-used  him,  some  time  before  1617. 
In  the  poem  we  give,  he  endeavours  to  arouse  Brian  to 
action,  and  calls  on  him  to  unite  the  clans  against  Eng- 
land, a  challenge  which  O'Rourke  did  not  fail  to  obey. 
It  is  a  good  sample  of  much  bardic  poetry  of  the  period. 

"  Ode  to  the  Maguire,"  by  Eochadh  O'Hosey  or  Hussey. 
the  last  bard  of  the  Maguires,  whose  strongly  fortified 


358      THE  POEM-BOOK  OF  THE  GAEL 

castle  still  frowns  upon  the  waters  of  the  Upper  and 
Lower  Lochs  Erne,  at 'Enniskillen,  Co.  Fermanagh.  His 
young  chief,  Hugh  Maguire,  had  marched  into  Munster 
in  the  depth  of  the  winter  of  1599-1600,  with  2500  foot 
and  200  horse  on  a  warlike  foray  ;  the  bard,  sitting  at 
home  in  Fermanagh,  bewails  the  hardships  which  he  feels 
sure  the  chief  and  his  followers  are  enduring  in  the  open 
camps  during  the  winter's  weather.  A  fine  copy  of  this 
poem  is  found  in  the  O'Gara  manuscript  in  the  Royal 
Irish  Academy,  Dublin,  of  which  Egerton  111  is  a  copy 
(and  see  O'Grady's  Catalogue,  p.  451). 

"  A  Lament  for  the  Princes  of  Tyrone  and  Tyrconnel," 
by  the  family  bard,  Red  Owen  Mac  Ward,  in  the  form  of 
an  address  of  comfort  to  O'Donnell's  sister,  Nuala,  who 
is  supposed  to  be  weeping  over  her  brother's  grave  in 
Rome,  where  he  had  taken  refuge  after  his  flight  from 
Ireland.  He  lies  buried,  beside  Hugh  O'Neill,  in  the 
Church  of  San  Pietro  Montario,  on  the  Janiculum.  The 
bard  imagines  the  clans  of  the  North  of  Ireland  gather- 
ing to  bewail  the  dead  and  share  Nuala's  grief.  Though 
Mangan's  broken  metre  imparts  a  fervour  and  fire  to  the 
original,  he  adds  nothing  to  its  slow  monotonous  im- 
pressiveness.  For  original  see  Egerton  111,  Art.  48 
(Brit.  Mus.),  and  translation  of  extracts  in  O'Grady's 
Catalogue,  pp.  371-3.  Mangan's  version  has  been  often 
reprinted. 

"  Co.  Mayo."  There  are  many  versions  of  this  favourite 
song.  That  given  here  is  said  to  have  been  composed  by 
a  bard  named  Thomas  Flavell,  a  native  of  Bophin  on  the 
Western  Seaboard.  Hardiman  gives  the  Irish  of  this 
song,  i.  p.  337 ;  and  also  another  version  by  David 
O'Murchadh,  or  Murphy,  ibid.,  pp.  229-33.  Flavell  was  a 
poor  dependent  on  the  fourth  Earl  of  Mayo,  and  lived 
about  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century.  For  a 
different  song  of  the  same  name,  see  Dr.  Hyde's  Poems  of 
Raftery,  p.  96. 

"The  Flower  of  Nut-brown  Maids"  is  the  oldest  of 
the  numerous  songs  written  to  the  air  "  Uileacan  Dubh  O." 
This  poem  dates  from  the  seventeenth  century,  and  it  is 


NOTES  359 

said  to  be  an  invitation  addressed  by  one  of  the  unfor- 
tunate landowners,  driven  out  of  Ulster  during  the  plan- 
tation of  James  I,  to  his  lady,  to  follow  him  to  Leitrim.  It 
seems  to  refer  to  a  time  of  famine,  and  is,  like  many  other 
love-songs,  in  the  form  of  a  colloquy.  Original  in  Hardi- 
raan,  i.  p.  258. 

"Roisin  Dubh."  from  the  original  in  O'Daly's  Poets 
and  Poetry  of  Munster,  where  two  versions  are  given. 
It  is  the  poem  on  which  Mangan  founded  his  "  Dark 
Rosaleen."  The  poem  is  an  address  to  Ireland,  veiled  as 
a  woman.  Hardiman  gives  some  quatrains  in  vol.  i. 
pp.  254-61. 

"  The  Fair  Hills  of  fiire  "  is  one  of  several  sets  of  words 
attached  to  the  tender  old  air  "  Uileacan  Dubh  O,"  or 
"  Oh,  the  heavy  lamentation."  One,  rendered  familiar 
in  Dr.  Samuel  Ferguson's  version,  beginning,  "  A  plenteous 
place  is  Ireland  for  hospitable  cheer,"  is  said  to  have  been 
written  by  an  Irish  student  in  one  of  the  colleges  of 
France  probably  early  in  the  seventeenth  century,  when 
most  of  the  promising  Irish  youths  went  abroad  for  their 
education.  The  version  here  given  in  Dr.  Sigerson's  fine 
rendering  was  written  by  Donnchad  Ruadh  MacNamara 
about  1730.  It  has  also  been  rendered  into  English  by 
Mangan.  For  the  original,  see  Poems  by  Donnchadh 
Ruadh  MacNamara,  edited  by  Tomas  O'Flannghaile 
(1897).  Dr.  George  Sigerson's  poem  will  be  found  in  his 
Bards  of  the  Gael  and  Gall  (T.  Fisher  Unwin,  1897),  p.  245. 

"  Love's  Despair  "  (ibid.,  p.  339).  This  touching  poem 
was  wntten  by  a  young  farmer  of  Cork  who,  near  the 
time  of  his  marriage,  had  gone  into  the  city  to  buy  the 
wedding-dress  for  his  betrothed.  On  his  way  back  he 
heard  that  she  had  been  married  to  another  man.  In 
despair  he  flung  his  presents  into  the  fire.  His  reason 
gave  way,  and  h«  roamed  the  country  henceforth,  ever 
singing  the  cruelty  of  Mary  and  his  own  misfortunes.  His 
story  was  well  known  in  Co.  Waterford,  where  he  lived 
a  great  part  of  his  life.  Original  in  Gaelic  Journal,  vol.  iii., 
1887,  p.  22. 


560      THE  POEM-BOOK  OF  THE  GAEL 

The  literal  translation  of  the  second  stanza  runs  as 
follows  :— 

"  No  one  knows  my  case,  or  how  I  may  find  life. 
But  only  the  woman  who  has  made  me  ill  ; 
My  cure  is  not  on  sea  or  shore,  nor  in  herb  or  skill  of 

hand, 

My  cure  is  only  in  the  Flower  of  Youth. 
I  know  not  hen  from  cuckoo,  I  know  not  heat  from  cold, 
At  no  time  dp  I  know  my  friends  ; 
I  know  not  night  from  day, — but  my  heart  would  know 

its  love, 
Should  she  come  in  time  to  save  me." 

"The  Cruiskeen  Lawn."  Dr.  Sigerson's  version  (ibid., 
p.  258),  here  reproduced,  shows  that  this  popular  air, 
better  known  in  connection  with  O'Keeffe's  rollicking 
drinking  song,  was  also  used  as  a  Jacobite  political  poem. 
The  chorus  and  name  of  the  air,  i.e.  "  The  little  full  jug," 
show  that  its  true  intent  is  bacchanalian.  We  find  this 
chorus,  like  many  others,  attached  to  songs  of  different 
significance.  Petrie,  in  his  collection  of  Ancient  Irish 
Music,  p.  37,  attaches  it  to  a  verse  of  a  lullaby: — 

"  My  love  is  upon  the  ri\-er, 
And  he  rocking  from  wave  to  wave  ; 
A  tree  without  foliage  over  his  head — 
And  what  does  my  Love  want  a-straying  there  ?  " 

(see  also  Gaelic  Journal,  viii.,  1898,  p.  224). 

"  Eamonn  an  Chnuic  "  or  "  Ned  of  the  Hill  "  is  founded 
on  the  history  of  a  famous  outlaw  named  Edmund  O'Ryan, 
born  in  Shanbohy,  Co.  Tipperary,  late  in  the  seventeenth 
century.  His  father  possessed  considerable  property  in 
his  native  county,  but  his  wild  career  led  to  his  outlawry. 
The  piercing  note  of  the  words  and  of  the  air  of  the  same 
name  is  typical  of  much  of  the  poetry  of  the  period. 
"  Ned  of  the  Hill  "  lies  buried  near  Faill  an  Chluig  in  the 
barony  of  Kilnemanagh,  Co.  Tipperary.  Some  versions 
give  several  other  verses,  of  a  different  character.  It  is 
a  love-song  as  given  by  Hardiman,  "  A  chuil  aluinn 


NOTES  361 

deas,"  i.  p.  268,  and  by  Mangan  in  his  Poets  and  Poetry 
of  Munster,  p.  264.  The  literal  translation  here  printed  is 
from  Mr.  P.  H.  Pearse's  contributions  in  the  Irish  Review, 
Dublin  (November  1911),  p.  437.  Mr.  Pearse  says, 
"  '  Eamonn  an  Chnuic  '  is  commonly  looked  upon  as  a 
love-song,  but  I  feel  sure  that  to  its  shaper  and  to  those 
who  first  heard  it,  the  figure  of  the  outlaw,  driven  by 
rain-storm  and  bullet-storm  and  beating  against  the 
closed  door,  mystically  symbolised  the  lonely  cause  of 
Ireland." 

"  O  Druimin  donn  dileas,"  an  early  Jacobite  song, 
sometimes  supposed  to  apply  to  Prince  James  Charles 
Edward,  but  more  probably  to  Ireland  itself  under  the 
symbolic  name  of  the  "  Beloved  white-backed  dun  cow." 
Original  in  Hardiman,  ii.  p.  145.  See  also  in  Petrie's 
Ancient  Music  of  Ireland,  p.  1 16,  a  translation  by  O'Curry. 

"  Do  you  remember  that  night  ?  "  Original  in  Petrie's 
Ancient  Music  of  Ireland,  p.  142.  He  says  it  was  written 
down  for  him  by  O'Curry.  The  account  given  by  him 
of  its  origin  does  not  seem  to  suit  the  words. 

"The  Exile's  Song."  Original  in  Gaelic  Journal. 
vol.  vi.,  No.  7,  1895,  p.  108.  Composed  by  an  emigrant 
named  M'Ambrois  (Mac  Cambridge),  and  taken  down 
from  James  M'Auley  of  Glengariff  and  James  M'Naughten 
of  Cushendall. 

"The  Fisherman's  Keen."  From  Crofton  Croker's 
The  Keen  in  tht  South  of  Ireland  (Percy  Society,  1844), 
p.  77.  It  was  communicated  to  Mr.  Croker  by  Mr. 
Maurice  O'Connell.  A  literal  translation,  taken  down 
from  the  lips  of  Mrs.  Harrington,  a  professional  "  keener  " 
of  Co.  Cork,  is  given  in  the  same  author's  Researches  in 
the  South  of  Ireland.  Unfortunately  the  original  Irish  is 
not  preserved  by  him,  nor  is  the  name  of  the  lady  given 
who,  he  tells  us,  wrote  the  poetical  rendering. 

"The  Boatman's  Hymn."  Taken  from  Sir  Samuel 
Ferguson's  Lays  of  the  Western  Gael,  1888,  pp.  162-3. 
Original  in  Hardiman,  ii.  p.  383. 


362      THE  POEM-BOOK  OF  THE   GAEL 

"  Keen  on  Art  O'Leary  "  by  his  wife.  Original  pub- 
lished in  Mrs.  Morgan  J.  O'Connell's  The  Last  Colonel  of 
the  Irish  Brigade  (Kegan  Paul,  1892),  vol.  ii.,  Appendix  A., 
and  reprinted  with  some  corrections  in  the  Gaelic  Journal 
(vol.  vii.,  Old  Series,  No.  74,  May  1896),  p.  18.  Some 
corrections  and  additions  are  made  in  the  following 
number  (June  1896).  Crofton  Croker,  in  his  Keens  of 
the  South  of  Ireland,  tells  us  that  he  endeavoured  to 
recover  this  dirge  but  without  success.  It  is  a  true 
example  of  the  spontaneous  "  keen,"  with  its  short 
broken  lines,  containing  in  quick,  natural  succession, 
appeals,  reminiscences,  laments  ;  moving  backwards  and 
forwards  as  the  irregular  promptings  of  grief  and  affection 
dictate  without  form  or  premeditation.  It  is,  however, 
lifted  into  the  sphere  of  fine  poetry  by  its  exceeding 
simplicity,  and  by  the  passion  of  grief  expressed  in  its 
lines. 

The  circumstances  in  which  the  poem  had  its  origin 
are  particularly  tragic.  Art  O'Leary  had  been  an  officer 
in  the  Hungarian  service,  but  he  returned  to  Ireland, 
where  he  had  a  considerable  property  in  Co.  Cork,  and 
where  his  handsome  person  and  distinguished  manners 
made  him  very  popular.  He  married,  against  the  wish 
of  her  parents,  Eileen  of  the  Raven  Locks,  as  she  was 
called  from  her  dark  hair,  a  daughter  of  Daniel  O'Connell 
of  Derrynane,  grandfather  of  "  the  Liberator."  The 
popularity  of  Art  O'Leary  excited  the  jealousy  of  a 
neighbour,  a  Mr.  Morris,  whose  horse  had  been  beaten 
in  a  race  by  O'Leary's  beautiful  mare.  Taking  advantage 
of  the  Penal  Laws,  which  did  not  permit  a  Catholic  to 
possess  a  horse  valued  at  more  than  £$,  he  demanded 
the  mare  from  Capt.  O'Leary  for  this  sum.  O'Leary 
refused,  saying  that  he  "  would  surrender  his  mare  only 
with  his  life."  A  local  magistrate  immediately  proclaimed 
him  an  outlaw  ;  soldiers  were  sent  to  lie  in  wait  for  him 
as  he  was  returning  home  at  night,  and  he  was  shot 
through  the  heart  near  Carrig-a-nimmy,  in  May  1773. 
His  wife  was  informed  of  her  husband's  death  by  the 
return  of  the  mare  without  its  rider.  It  was  many  years 
before  his  body  was  even  allowed  to  be  buried  in  conse- 
crated ground.  Morris  was  tried  for  the  murder,  but 


NOTES  363 

acquitted  ;  he  was  soon  after  shot  in  his  house  by  Arthur's 
brother.  Art  O'Leary's  grave  is  to  be  seen  in  the  nave 
of  Kilcrea  Abbey,  Co.  Cork  ;  the  inscription  states  that 
he  was  only  twenty-six  years  of  age  when  he  died. 

"Prologue  to  'The  Midnight  Court'"  (Cuirl  an 
Mhcadhon  Oidhche),  by  Bryan  Merryman.  The  long  satire 
of  which  we  give  the  Prologue  has  been  published  by 
Mr.  Richard  Foley  (Riscard  O  Foghludha)  (Hodges, 
Figgis  &  Co.). 

"  Hymn  to  the  Virgin  Mary."  Original  in  The  Poems 
of  Egan  O'Rahilly  (ist  ed.(  Irish  Texts  Society,  vol.  Hi., 
1900),  p.  290.  The  author,  Conchubhar  or  Conor 
O'Riordan  was  a  native  of  Co.  Cork,  where  he  taught 
the  classics  and  other  subjects  to  the  youths  of  his 
district.  He  wrote,  about  the  same  time  as  Gray,  a 
"  Meditation  in  a  Country  Churchyard,"  to  which  this 
very  beautiful  address  to  the  Virgin  forms  the  Epilogue 
or  "Binding"  (ceangal  as  it  is  called  in  Irish).  The 
whole  poem  is  included  in  the  appendix  to  Rev.  P.  S. 
Dinneen's  edition  of  O'Rahilly's  poems. 

"  Christmas  Hymn."  Original  in  Dr.  Douglas  Hyde's 
Religious  Songs  of  Connacht  (T.  Fisher  Unwin,  1906), 
vol.  ii.  pp.  224-6 ;  from  an  old  North  of  Ireland 
manuscript. 

"  O  Mary  of  Graces."  Ibid.,  p.  161.  Taken  down  by 
Miss  Agnes  O'Farrelly  from  a  lad  in  the  Aran  Islands, 
Co.  Gal  way. 

"The  Cattle-shed."  Original  in  Timthirid  Chroidhe 
ncamhtha  losa  or  The  Messenger  (published  by  Gill  &  Son, 
Dublin),  p.  90.  The  following  nine  poems  and  fragments 
are  from  the  same  publication,  vol.  i.,  Parts  1-4. 

"  The  White  Paternoster."  Ibid.,  p.  ?8.  The  two  ver- 
sions of  this  favourite  charm  here  given,  of  which  the 
second  is  translated  from  the  original  in  a  Kerry  journal, 
An  Lochran  (October  1900),  should  be  compared  with  the 
copies  printed  by  Dr.  D.  Hyde  in  his  Religious  Songs, 
vol.  i.  pp.  362-70. 


364      THE  POEM-BOOK  OF  THE   GAEL 

"A  Night  Prayer."  This  fragment  and  the  eleven 
succeeding  prayers  were  taken  down  in  Irish  among  the 
Decies  of  Co.  Waterford  by  Rev.  M.  Sheenan,  D.Ph.,  and 
have  been  published  by  him  in  his  Cn6  Cdilleadh  Craobh- 
aighe  (Gill  &  Son,  Dubh'n,  1907). 

"The  Man  who  Stands  Stiff."  From  Dr.  D.  Hyde's 
Religious  Songs  of  Connacht,  vol.  i.  p.  101,  taken  down 
from  the  mouth  of  Martin  Rua  O'Gillarna  (in  English, 
Red  Martin  Forde)  of  Lisaniska,  Co.  Galway.  He  spoke 
no  English.  This  poem  is  a  sample  of  much  of  the  popular 
religious  poetry  dealing  with  the  approach  of  death  and 
the  danger  of  continuing  in  evil  courses. 

"Charm  for  a  Sprain."  This  and  the  succeeding 
charms  are  taken  from  Lady  Wilde's  Legends,  Charms, 
and  Cures  of  Ireland  (Chatto  &  Windus).  It  is  unfortu- 
nate that  Lady  Wilde  does  not  give  either  her  originals 
or  her  authorities. 

"  Before  the  sun  rose  at  yesterdawn."  Original  in 
Walsh's  Irish  Popular  Songs,  2nd  ed.  (Gill  &  Son,  Dublin), 
p.  146.  Edward  Walsh,  who  translated  into  English 
verse  a  great  number  of  Irish  popular  songs,  lived  between 
the  years  1805-50. 

"  The  Blackthorn."  One  of  those  favourite  old  songs 
of  which  there  are  many  versions,  and  verses  in  one  that 
are  not  in  another.  Like  many  another  Irish  song,  it 
seems  to  be  a  colloquy  between  a  maid  and  her  lover, 
and  it  is  often  difficult  to  tell  if  it  is  the  lad  or  the  girl 
who  is  speaking.  My  version  is  the  one  printed  in  Miss 
Borthwick's  Cs6l  Sldhe,  ii.  p.  18  (an  excellent  collection 
of  old  Irish  songs),  with  two  verses  added  from  the  version 
in  Dr.  D.  Hyde's  Love-Songs  of  Connacht  (T.  Fisher  Unwin, 
!893),  p.  30.  The  poem  is  sad  and  troubled.  Dr.  Hyde 
says,  "  There  was  an  old  woman  in  it,  long  ago,  who  used 
to  sing  it  to  me,  and  she  never  came  to  the  verse — 

'  Although  the  rowen-berry  tree  is  high,  &c.,' 
that  she  used  not  to  shed  tears  from  her  eye."    We  can 


NOTES  365 

well  believe  it.  Hardiman  (i.  p.  234)  has  published  a 
different  version,  and  Miss  Brooke  another  in  her  Reliques 
(1816),  p.  306. 

"  Pastheen  Finn,"  or  "  Fair  little  Child."  Original  in 
Hardiman's  Irish  Minstrelsy,  i.  p.  217.  Dr.  Hyde  gives 
a  quite  different  version  in  his  Love-Songs,  p.  65.  We 
find  the  curfa  or  chorus  attached  to  different  songs.  Sir 
Samuel  Ferguson's  version  will  be  found  in  his  Lays  of 
the  Western  Gael  (Sealy,  Bryers,  Dublin,  1888),  p.  152. 
Hardiman  considers  that  it  is  an  address  to  the  son  of 
James  II,  under  a  secret  name. 

"  She."  Original  in  Miss  Brooke's  Reliques  of  Irish 
Poetry,  p.  232. 

"  Hopeless  Love."  Given  as  an  example  of  an  old 
Irish  metre  called  Dibide  baise  fri  toin,  but  this  poem 
was  not  actually  written  in  this  metre. 

"  Would  God  I  were."  Original  in  Hardiman,  i.  p.  344. 
Mrs.  Hinkson's  setting  of  the  Irish  words  will  be  found  in 
her  Irish  Love-Songs  (T.  Fisher  Unwin,  Cameo  Series, 
1892). 

"  Branch  of  the  sweet  and  early  rose."  William 
Drennan,  M.D.  (b.  1754),  died  in  Belfast  in  1820. 

"  'Tis  a  Pity."  Original  in  Cldirseach  na  n-Gaedhil, 
Part  ii.,  1902  (Gaelic  League  Publications).  Ceol-sidhe 
(p.  92)  gives  a  different  version.  There  are  several  other 
verses. 

"The  Yellow  Bittern"  (An  bundn  buidhc).  Original 
in  Clairseach  na  n-Gaedhil,  Part  v.,  and  Ceol-sidhe,  p.  12. 
This  translation  appeared  in  the  Irish  Review,  Dublin, 
November  1911. 


"  Have  you  been  at  Carrack  ?  "  Original  in  Mangan's 
Poets  and  Poetry  of  Munster  (J.  Duffy),  p.  344.  Walsh 
thinks  it  is  a  song  from  the  South  of  Ireland. 

"  Cashel  of  Munster."    There  are  various  versions  of 


366      THE   POEM-BOOK  OF  THE   GAEL 

this  popular  song,  set  to  its  air  "  Clar  bog  deil."  One 
used  by  Walsh  was,  he  tells  us,  given  to  him  by  a  lady 
of  Co.  Clare.  Ferguson's  version  is  taken  from  Hardi- 
man, i.  p.  238. 

"  The  Snowy-breasted  Pearl."  Original  in  Petrie's 
Ancient  Music  of  Ireland,  p.  n.  Petrie  was  born  in 
Dublin  in  1789  and  died  in  1866. 

"  The  Dark  Maid  of  the  Valley  "  (Bean  dubh  an  Gleanna). 
There  are  two  versions  and  airs  of  this  name.  The  original 
of  Mr.  P.  J.  McCall's  poem  is  to  be  found  in  Miss  Brooke's 
Reliques,  p.  319.  His  own  rendering  was  published  in 
his  Irish  Ndinins  (Sealy,  Bryers  &  Walker,  1894),  p.  50. 

"  The  Coolun."  Original  in  Hardiman,  i.  p.  250.  Two 
other  versions  will  be  found  in  Dr.  Hyde's  Love-Songs  of 
Connacht  (1893),  PP-  7I-3-  One  of  these  beginning,  "A 
honey  mist  on  a  day  of  frost,  in  a  dark  oak  wood  "  is 
very  tender  and  sweet.  Its  air  is  among  the  most  beauti- 
ful that  Ireland  has  produced.  The  "  Coolun  "  was  a 
lock  of  hair  which,  having  been  forbidden  by  statute,  it 
became  a  mark  of  national  sentiment  to  adopt.  It  was 
usually  worn  by  youths,  but  in  these  poems  the  address 
is  to  a  woman. 

"  Ceann  dubh  dileas,"  or  the  "  Beloved  Dark  Head." 
Original  in  Hardiman,  i.  p.  262.  Dr.  Hyde  gives  an 
additional  verse  in  his  Love-Songs.  Burns  claimed  the 
air  for  Scotland,  and  Corri  published  it  under  the  name 
of  "  Oran  Gaoil,"  but  it  is  undoubtedly  Irish. 

"Ringleted  Youth  of  my  Love."  From  Dr.  Hyde's 
Love-Songs  of  Connacht  (T.  Fisher  Unwin,  1893),  P-  4°- 

"  I  shall  not  die  for  you."     Original,  ibid.,  p.  138. 

"  Donall  Oge."  This  pathetic  song  and  the  one  follow- 
ing it,  "  The  Grief  of  a  Girl's  Heart,"  seem  to  be  portions 
of  one  long  song,  to  the  original  nucleus  of  which  quatrains 
have  been  added  from  time  to  time.  Six  stanzas  were 
published  by  Dr.  Hyde  in  his  Love-Songs  (pp.  4-6)  under 


NOTES  367 

the  title,  "  If  I  were  to  go  West  "  ;  it  would  seem  that 
his  "  Breed  Astore  "  (p.  76)  may  also  be  a  portion  of  the 
same  poem.  Mr.  P.  H.  Pearse,  who  published  several 
other  stanzas  under  the  title  of  "  Donall  Oge,"  or  "  Young 
Donall,"  in  the  Irish  Review  of  August  191 1,  tells  us  that 
he  wrote  it  down  from  the  words  of  Denis  Dorgan  of 
Carrignavar,  Co.  Cork.  The  Irish  will  be  found  printed 
in  his  and  Mr.  Tadhg  O'Donoghue's  An  t-Aithriseoir 
(Gaelic  League,  1902),  p.  7.  In  all  these  versions  there 
are  some  stanzas  alike  and  some  different  to  the  others. 
We  have  printed  nearly  the  whole  of  them  here  under 
the  two  titles  of  "Donall  Oge"  and  "The  Grief  of  a 
Girl's  Heart."  Both  are  full  of  the  most  heartrending 
expression  of  loss  and  loneliness.  Lady  Gregory,  in  her 
Poets  and  Dreamers,  published  a  literal  translation  of  the 
latter  poem. 

"  Death  the  Comrade."  Original  in  Dr.  Hyde's 
Religious  Songs,  ii.  pp.  288-90. 

"  Muirneen  of  the  Fair  Hair."  Original  in  Dr.  Hyde's 
Love-Songs,  pp.  10-12.  Cf.  another  Munster  version  on 
p.  1 6,  and  one  given  by  Hardiman,  i.  p.  354. 

"  The  Red  Man's  Wife."  A  popular  theme  on  which 
there  are  many  variations.  We  give  two,  the  originals 
of  both  being  taken  from  Dr.  Hyde's  Love-Songs,  pp.  92 
and  94.  The  first  is  a  Galway  version,  the  second  from 
Co.  Meath.  The  latter  was  first  printed  in  the  Oban 
Times.  Yet  another  version  is  given  in  Dr.  Hyde's 
edition  of  Raftery's  Poems,  p.  210. 

"  My  Grief  on  the  Sea."  Original  in  Dr.  Hyde's  Love- 
Songs.  It  was  taken  down  by  him  from  an  old  woman 
named  Biddy  Cusruaidh  or  Crummy,  living  in  the  midst 
of  a  bog  in  Co.  Roscommon. 

"  Oro  Mhor,  a  Mhoirin."  Original  in  Petrie's  Ancient 
Music  of  Ireland,  p.  120.  It  was  obtained  by  him  from 
Teigue  MacMahon,  a  peasant  of  Co.  Clare.  Mr.  P.  J. 
McCall's  poem  was  printed  in  his  Pulse  oj  the  Bards  (Gill 
&  Son,  1904),  p.  50. 


368      THE   POEM-BOOK   OF  THE   GAEL 

"  The  Little  Yellow  Road."  Original  taken  down  by 
Prof.  John  MacNeill  in  Co.  Mayo  in  July  1894,  and  printed 
by  him  in  the  Gaelic  Journal  for  that  year  (vol.  v.,  No.  6), 
p.  91.  There  are  several  versions  of  An  Boithrin  buidhe  ; 
see  for  another,  Petrie's  A  ncient  Music,  p.  24.  Mr.  Camp- 
bell's translation,  kindly  contributed  to  this  collection, 
has  not  been  published  before. 

"Reproach  to  the  Pipe"  (Mdsladh  an  Phiopa).  The 
original,  taken  down  in  Galway,  will  be  found  in  the 
Gaelic  Journal  (vol.  vi.,  No.  5),  p.  73. 

"  Modereen  Rue."  Mrs.  Tynan-Hinkson's  poem  is  not 
a  direct  translation,  but  a  spirited  free  version  of  the 
favourite  Gaelic  song  of  this  name  ;  it  was  published  in 
The  Wind  in  the  Trees  (Grant  Richards,  1898),  p.  98. 

"  The  Stars  Stand  Up  "  (Tdid  na  realta  'n-a  seasadh  ar 
an  aer).  Original  in  Ce6l-sldhe,  Part  iv.,  p.  50,  among 
other  places.  I  have  altered  the  last  four  lines. 

"The  Love  Smart."  Original  in  Dr.  Hyde's  Love- 
Songs,  p.  22. 

"  Well  for  Thee."     Original,  ibid.,  p.  130. 

"  I  am  Raftery  the  Poet."  From  Dr.  Hyde's  edition 
of  Raftery' s  Poems  (H.  M.  Gill  &  Son,  Dublin,  1903),  p.  40. 

"  Dust  hath  closed  Helen's  eye."  Original,  ibid.,  p.  330. 
Mr.  W.  B.  Yeats  has  slightly  worked  over  Lady  Gregory's 
rendering.  Mary  Hynes,  who  "  died  of  fever  before  the 
famine,"  has  left  a  tradition  of  beauty  behind  her  in  her 
own  country.  "  She  was  the  finest  tiling  that  was  ever 
shaped,"  said  an  old  fiddler  who  remembered  her  well. 
Baoile  laoi  (Bally lee)  is  a  little  village  of  some  half-dozen 
houses  in  the  barony  of  Kiltartan.  Lady  Gregory's 
beautiful  rendering  was  published  in  an  article  by  Mr. 
W.  B.  Yeats  in  The  Dome,  New  Series,  vol.  iv.  p.  161. 


NOTES  369 

"  The  Shining  Posy  "  or  "  Mary  Stanton,"  ibid.,  p.  320. 
We  must  remember  that  poor  Raftery,  who  praises  so 
warmly  the  beauty  of  women,  saw  them  only  with  the 
eyes  of  his  imagination,  for  he  was  blind.  His  verses 
seem  to  have  been  impromptu  compositions.  The  classical 
allusions  are  very  characteristic  of  the  wandering  bards, 
who  liked  to  show  off  their  acquaintance  with  the  heroes 
of  bygone  ages. 

"  Love  is  a  Mortal  Disease  "  (Is  claoidhte  an  galar  an 
grddh).  Original  in  Smollln  na  Rann,  a  collection  of 
Connaught  songs  made  by  Mr.  Fionan  McCollum,  "  Finghin 
na  Leamhna  "  (Gaelic  League,  1908). 

"  I  am  watching  my  young  calves  sucking."  This 
and  the  two  following  poems,  "  The  Narrow  Road  "  and 
"  Forsaken,"  are  translated  from  Dr.  Douglas  Hyde's 
little  collection  of  original  Irish  songs  called  Ubhla  de'n 
Chraoibh,  or  Apples  of  the  Bough  (Gill  &  Son,  Dublin). 

"  I  Follow  a  Star."  Translated  by  Seosamh  mac 
Cathmhaoil  (James  Campbell)  from  his  own  Irish  poem, 
and  published  by  him  in  The  Gilly  of  Christ  (Maunsell 
&  Co.,  Dublin). 

"  Nurse's  Song."  Published  by  Mr.  Alfred  M.  Williams 
in  his  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Ireland  (Houghton,  Mifflen 
and  Co.,  Boston  and  New  York).  The  song  is  traditional, 
and  its  author  is  unknown. 

"  A  Sleep  Song."  Original  in  Gaelic  Journal,  May 
1911,  p.  141.  The  song  was  partly  taken  down  from 
Mr.  McAuley  Lynch  in  West  Cork,  and  partly  recollected 
from  childhood  by  Mr.  P.  H.  Pearse,  the  translator. 

"  The  Cradle  of  Gold."  From  Mr.  Alfred  P.  Graves' 
Irish  Poems,  ii.  p.  117  (Maunsel  &  Co.).  Original  in 
Petrie's  Ancient  Music  of  Ireland,  p.  146. 

a  A 


370       THE   POEM-BOOK   OF  THE  GAEL 

"Rural  Song."  Original  in  Petrie's  Ancient  Music  of 
Ireland,  p.  43.  Joyce's  Irish  Music  gives  some  extra 
stanzas. 

"  Ploughing  Song."     Original,  ibid.,  p.  30. 
"  A  Spinning-wheel  Ditty."    Ibid.,  p.  85. 


Printed  by  BALLANTYNE,  HANSON  &•»  Co. 
at  Paul's  Work,  Edinburgh 


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